Ramble On
by gaelicspirit
Summary: When a hunt goes sideways, the brothers are hurt and lost in the northern Minnesota woods. They have only each other and their skills to get them out...and they aren't alone. They are being tracked by the 'perfect hunter'.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: **They're not mine. _

_**Spoilers:** This story is set in Season 1 between "Provenance" and "Dead Man's Blood". There are flashbacks to instances that happen throughout Season 1 up to this point as well as flashbacks to the boys' childhood, and events in my other stories, Holding on to Let Go, and Within My Hands. But it's not necessary to read those to understand – it is simply memories from the boys. _

_a/n: The story is more of a focus on the relationship between the boys, so I've kinda dropped them into the action. And, I'll just say it. It's angsty with some hurtDean/hurtSam comfort thrown in there for good measure. _

_This story will eventually contain phrases spoken in Ojibwa (or Chippewa)_ _Indian. I put the translations at the completion of the relevant chapter. Additionally, to help orient you to the timing of the flashbacks/memories, I've put the location and year at the beginning of the flashback. The story title is from Led Zepplin's song of the same name. All songs will be referenced in the story or at the chapter's close. Hope you enjoy! _

_Kelly – again and always, thank you for the beta read._

_WWW_

_Courage is the complement of fear. A man who is fearless cannot be courageous. -- Robert A. Heinlein, __Notebooks of Lazarus_

Ramble On – Part 1

"Holy shit, there's two of them!"

"What the hell? Since when did wendigos hunt in pairs?"

"Since now – Sam, look out!"

They were separated by five feet. Five feet. If Dean could have reached twice as long as his arm, he would have had a fistful of Sam's jacket right now. He would have pulled him out of the way. He could have prevented all that was to come. Instead, he watched in horror as the boulder rolled in amazingly fast slow motion toward Sam. He watched Sam's head jerk up at the sound of his voice and then saw him try to spring away, getting clipped on the shoulder and thrown off balance, teetering for precious seconds on the edge of the cliff while Dean reached and ran…but wasn't fast enough.

Sam toppled over the edge and into the darkness.

The impossibly tall wendigo screamed a harsh, guttural sound from behind where Dean now stood, from the direction the boulder had come.

"SAM!"

Nothing, no sound. The cave was damp, dark, and colder than the woods that surrounded it. It was more of a deep outcropping in a cliff face than a cave. The northern Minnesota woods hid many such caves which were perfect lairs for bears, wolves, and apparently wendigos. Dean dropped to his knees on the narrow ledge where seconds before his brother had been standing. The wendigo's cry was a nauseating gurgle of insanity, and it was getting closer.

"Sam, dammit, you answer me," Dean ordered, his eyes searching the darkness below, his tone a barely-controlled panic.

"Dean," Sam's voice was faint, and a lot closer than Dean thought it would be.

"Hey," the relief in Dean's voice was palpable. "Hey, you okay man?"

"Freakin' boulder," Sam grumbled, pain laced through his words.

"Can you move?" Dean still couldn't see him. He gathered that Sam had tried to move, though, because a second later his gut clenched when Sam cried out in pain. "Sam!"

"Oh, God, Dean, m-my leg," Sam's breath was coming in gasps and his voice was faint.

"Don't move," Dean commanded. "I'm coming down." _Where the hell was he?_ Dean's eyes darted below him, trying to see into the gloom.

"I'm right here," Sam gasped. He'd seen Dean's frantic eyes searching for him and realized that the darkness of the cave was covering him. They had entered the cave and climbed about ten feet up a stone wall to a ledge as they tracked the wendigo. They had set their packs down, and were prepared to fight the one wendigo they knew about when its friend had shown up. The ten-foot cliff face Sam had fallen from hadn't been that steep, but he'd been off balance when he fell and had landed hard, on his right leg, the air leaving his lungs with force.

"Where? Sammy, I can't –"

"Dean, behind you!" Sam found the air he'd been missing. He sucked it all back in when he saw the wendigo literally loom over Dean in the wan light filtering in from the mouth of the cave. He actually reached toward Dean, his instincts screaming at him to shove Dean aside, but even if he had been close enough, he couldn't get his body to move. The pain in his leg canceled out all other function.

He watched Dean's eyes flash wide for an instant of confusion, startled by the panic in Sam's voice, then his brother ducked and turned, pulling the flare gun from the pocket of his cargo jacket and bringing it up to fire in one smooth motion. The snuff-growl of the tall, emaciated creature echoed off the small confines of the cave. Before Dean could get the gun completely up and pointed where it would do the most damage, the wendigo swiped at him, its claws slashing across his upper arm, the force of the blow propelling Dean sideways, out of Sam's line of sight.

"Dean!" Sam bellowed, trying to use his arms and left leg to push him out of the little slope he'd fallen into. The pain that lanced through the lower part of his right leg brought him up short. He could feel the warm, sticky sensation of blood running down the inside of his jeans.

With a growl of frustration and pain, he dropped his head back, trying to see Dean, the wendigo, anything. Then, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and remembered the shocking realization that had gotten him into this mess. There were two. And if Dean was tangling with one, then what he was seeing was the mate or partner or whatever the hell it was advancing for the kill.

"Dean!" he bellowed again, and this time he heard him.

"Fucking son of a bitch," Dean was yelling, a grunt of pain following the phrase.

Sam's brown eyes darted, trying to see something, a shadow, an arm, _something_ that gave him some indication of where Dean was.

"Arggaahh!" Dean yelled and was suddenly in Sam's line of sight as he flew over Sam's head and hit the far wall at an alarming rate of speed. His body slid to a motionless pile at the base of the wall.

_Shit,_ Sam thought, knowing that both wendigos were still above him as he hadn't seen the flare gun or a torch or anything illuminate the cave before Dean's aerial stunt took him out of the game. Sam had lost his gun when the boulder hit him, but he knew that Dean would still have his. He knew it would be clutched in his hand, conscious or not.

When he'd found Dean in the basement of the cabin with the Rawhead, nearly dead from a heart attack triggered by 100,000 volts of electricity, he'd had to pry the taser from his brother's grip.

"Dean!" he called, twisting his neck so that he could see his brother. Dean didn't move. Sam tried again, and this time he both heard and felt a shower of smaller rocks from the cliff edge above as a wendigo moved toward them, drawn no doubt by the scent of the blood he could feel pooling under his right leg. Puffing out a series of breaths to try to still the nausea that immediately hit when he shifted his leg, Sam started to pull himself toward Dean's still form.

In seconds he was sweating, bright spots of light dancing in front of his eyes as the pain from his leg slammed into him in literal waves. The crest of each wave made him whimper or cry out depending on its intensity, the lull of each wave made him pause in his slow backwards crawl toward Dean as the relief made him weak.

In what seemed like a year, but was probably only a span of about three minutes, he felt Dean's back under his outstretched hand. Dean was on his stomach, both arms underneath him. Sam paused, panting, and darted his eyes around the dimly lit cave. He couldn't see either creature, but he could hear them, smell them. They exuded a rank odor of rotting flesh, dirt, and stagnant water.

Sam dropped his head back to the cave floor trying to catch his breath. Sweat ran down his face and inside of his shirt, despite the frigid air in the cave. _Closer, Sam, it's getting closer,_ he could almost hear his brother's voice in his head. It was always Dean's voice he heard when he was in trouble or hesitant. He knew Dean heard John – Dean had always heard John more clearly than he had anyone else – but for Sam, it was his brother's voice commanding, comforting, encouraging, warning.

A guttural growl spurred him into action. He rotated his right arm over his head and fisted Dean's jacket, rolling his brother to his back. Dean was limp, unresponsive. Sam swallowed, unable to clearly see his brother's face from this angle. He reached out blindly to find Dean's neck and searched with frantic fingers for a pulse. He felt it, faint, rapid, but there. _First things first, Sammy,_ the voice that was Dean in his head reminded him. _Kill the bad guy, then care for the soldiers._

Sam's hands shook slightly as he gripped Dean's arm, bringing it into his line of sight, praying it was this hand and not his left for some random reason. Though his fingers were loose, the flare gun was there. Sam worked it from his brother's grip and rotated around to face the direction of the cliff. The stench was stronger now. Sam kept the gun up, darting his eyes around. He heard the gravel fall again from the cliff above.

And then it was there. Just there, it's long claw-like fingers splayed, reaching, its sharp teeth dripping, and black pits where its eyes should be boring into Sam. He couldn't see where the other one was, but one was enough for now.

He pulled the trigger, closing his eyes and turning his head as the flare lit up the torso of the wendigo, its shrill cry of agony drowning out any other sound and all other thought. In seconds the first creature was no more than a pile of ash and bone. Sam blinked a bit in the left-over light of the flare. His over-taxed brain flashed to the last time he'd seen a wendigo die by flare-gun fire. In the wake of the burst of light he'd seen his brother, battered, bloody, bruised, actually _grinning_ as he stood on the other side of the creature.

"_Not bad, huh?"_

Sam began searching frantically for the second creature while patting down Dean's jacket pockets for another flare.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon…" he chanted. Dean was always prepared. Extra prepared. John had literally drilled that into his brother from a young age. "Where is it, Dean," he muttered.

He could feel rock salt pellets, car keys, an extra clip for the .45… he grunted as he pushed his brother onto his left side and felt his back pockets with the back of his hand. He was beginning to shake from the effort and the hot throb of pain from his lower leg was building on a crest again. If he didn't find this flare soon, he was afraid that – there! There it was. Back pocket. Easy reach. Of course.

Sam dug it out, loaded the gun and shifted against Dean as his brother's unconscious form slumped back against the cave floor.

"Where are you, you bastard," Sam growled, keeping the gun up.

The cave was silent save for his harsh breathing. As the pain crested over him, Sam's arms trembled. He lowered the gun to his lap, still looking around the cave. He couldn't see his leg, but he knew by the pain that it was broken, and by the feel of the blood that the break was bad. He held himself tense as the pain eased again, then dropped his head back, resting it on the inside of Dean's shoulder.

"Dean," Sam called, holding his breath as he waited for a response. Dean hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound since he hit that wall.

The silence of the cave was beginning to suffocate Sam. He could feel his breath coming in harsh gasps, coming too fast.

"Dean," this time his voice was less sure, less of a command for an answer, and more of a plea for reassurance. _Answer me, big brother, let me know you're still with me… let me know we're getting out of this._

The flare gun dropped loose in his grip as he closed his eyes against another wave of pain. He then became aware of two things at once: Dean was stirring and the stench of the wendigo was gone. Had the second one left?

"Sam," his name was a mere breath of air whispered across his brother's still unaware lips. It wasn't acknowledgment of his presence. It was simply Dean's first thought upon waking, verbalized through his bewilderment.

"Dean, man, c'mon," Sam swallowed. "I need you to wake up."

He didn't lift his head from Dean's shoulder so that he could feel when his brother became more awake, ready to resume control. He felt Dean shift slowly and could picture him turning his head toward the weight on his shoulder, his green eyes blinking in pained confusion.

"Sam?" this time it was spoke with more strength. "How… did I get…"

"Wendigo. Tossed you into the wall."

Dean groaned and Sam felt him shift again. "Why'r you layin' on me?"

"Flare gun," Sam panted through gritted teeth. His leg was on fire now.

"You get it?"

"One of them," Sam answered.

"Shit, yeah, two," Dean muttered. Sam felt him starting to relax, starting to fade, and that's when the real worry set in.

"Dean!" he barked with as much force as he could put behind his voice. Dean jumped, suddenly more awake.

"Dean, I need your help, man," Sam continued, allowing the pain to seep into his voice.

The plea in Sam's voice brought him the rest of the way to awareness. He blinked up at the dark, blank canvas of the cave ceiling for a moment, gathering his bearings. His head pounded, he could feel the hot sting of the gashes on is left arm from the wendigo's claws, and his vision wouldn't stop sliding in and out of focus, but other than that, he seemed intact.

"You fell," he said suddenly.

"Yeah," Sam answered, unable to vocalize much more.

Dean shifted so that Sam's head eased off of his shoulder and rested on the cave floor. He pushed himself into sitting position, waited a moment while his stomach caught up with his bouncing vision, then rolled to his knees. As he approached his prone brother, something Sam said suddenly registered.

"Only one?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to that other ugly mother?"

"Left," Sam ground out.

One word answers were Dean's stock in trade to handle pain. If Sam were adopting that trait, things were not good.

"Okay, take it easy, Sammy," he soothed. "Let me take a look."

Sam's eyes were closed, his hands fisted at his sides. Dean remembered his brother's pained gasp of _my leg_ just before he managed to wrestle himself into a toss against a wall. He could see Sam's left leg was up, bent at the knee. His right, however… Dean hissed.

"Okay, Sam, I'm not gonna bullshit you," he said, his voice low. "This is not good."

Sam nodded once. He was sweating and shaking, but he was focused on controlling his breathing. _Dean's here… Dean's here… Dean's here…_

"Looks like the bone broke through the skin just below your knee," Dean muttered, wishing for more light. "I'm gonna have to go up and get our bags… get the supplies."

Sam nodded.

"Let me have the flare gun."

"No," Sam ground out.

"Waddaya mean, no?" Dean's eyes flew to Sam's face, surprised.

"I can see…better than you… in the dark. I can… watch for it," Sam said, looking at his brother still perched at his lower leg.

"Whatever, Riddick," Dean grumbled. "Like you could hit anything shaking like that."

"Dude, TV… has an off button… and I hit the other one just fine," Sam shot back.

Dean worked his jaw, knowing his brother was right.

"Just don't miss," he said, pressing his lips together to ward off a particularly harsh thump in his head. "Off button my ass, you knew what I was talking about," he muttered as he turned to find a way back up the cliff face.

"I heard that," Sam said.

"Well I said it out loud," Dean snapped at him.

Sam concentrated on keeping his breaths even, blending the pain thrumming from his leg with the rhythm of his breathing. He kept his eyes on Dean, not missing the unsteady sway that his brother controlled just before he started to work his way, hand over hand, up the cliff face. At least it was a baby cliff.

He didn't realize he'd said that thought out loud until he heard Dean's curse in reply. He knew what his brother was doing. Antagonize him, keep him focused on the barbs, not on the pain. Get him irritated with Dean and he just might forget the waves of pain slicing through his leg. Dean had done this before. With the werewolf when he was 14, the poltergeist when he was 16, and that time he'd managed to break his arm on the basketball court when he was 10… his first and only non-supernatural injury.

"I'm up," Dean called, breathless. "I got the bags."

"You see an easier way down?"

"Geeze, Sammy, what the hell is easier than falling?"

"Just be careful," Sam grumbled.

Dean had to stop and take a breath. His head was pounding and he kept seeing two of everything. He had to reach for the duffel handles three times before he actually grabbed them. Sweat kept running into his eyes and he rubbed it out impatiently with the back of his hand. Had to get back down to Sam. Leg looked bad. Had to set it, get him out of there. Somehow. He'd had trouble carrying his brother since he turned thirteen and overnight, it seemed, grew taller than Dean. And with the incessant burn in his arm, carrying Sam's lanky bulk was pretty much a non-option.

_Set leg, then worry about escape._ First, he had to get down. He looked over the edge and almost threw up as his vision wavered again, the nausea hitting him like a wave.

"You okay, man?" Sam asked.

Dean hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until he opened them at Sam's voice. "Sure, why?"

"You looked… you sure you're okay?"

Dean wasn't okay, and he was starting to register that. The crack to his head was harder than he realized. He swallowed. Then swallowed again. The instant he knew he was going to be sick, he turned away from the edge of the cliff.

"Damn," he moaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He _hated_ getting sick. He knew what this meant, though. With the pain, the double vision, the nausea…but he'd had concussions before and this could _not_ stop him from helping Sam. A compound fracture trumps a concussion any day.

"Dean?"

"I'm coming, Sam," Dean said softly, hoping Sam's ears were as good as his eyesight. "Just… just gimme a minute. I just need a minute."

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New Orleans, LA 2005

_Dean shook his head. He had to get up, he knew it. Something was wrong with Sam if he was losing this bad in a fistfight. He tried to stand and ended up falling forward, catching himself with his hands. He heard a gasp of surprise and possibly of pain from one of his attackers. It's about time, Sam, he thought. He just needed a minute… just a minute to catch his breath._

_Another gasp, sounds of a struggle, and the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. Then, he swore he heard the sound of a knife stabbing into someone. It had a distinct muffled pop that he'd heard countless times before. But that didn't make sense because he had the knife, not Sam… He felt hands on his shoulders, easing him back into sitting position._

_Gentle hands probed the back of his head and he winced when they touched the bleeding gash at the back of his scalp. He tried to brush the hands away when they moved to his eyes, prying them open to check his alertness._

"_M'okay," he mumbled, trying desperately to sound as if he meant it._

"_No, you are not," said a voice that was definitely not Sam's._

_Dean's eyes flew open. "Where's Sam?" His voice sounded rough to his ears. Rough and worried._

_Joss shrugged, "I do not know. I followed you, and when I got here, you were fighting two men. And losing," he added, grimacing at the bruising already showing up around Dean's left eye and on his forehead._

_Dean started to push Joss away and stand. The world chose that moment to tilt dangerously to the side. To avoid sliding off the planet entirely, Dean eased back down until the world righted itself._

"_Gotta find him," he said. Where the hell was Sam?_

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"Sam?!"

"Still here."

"Man, that was weird," Dean muttered. For a moment he felt as though he was actually back in those woods with Joss Coulee, realizing that his brother had been taken from him. "I'm coming down."

With a barely muffled grunt of pain he slung their packs over his shoulders, ignoring the stabbing pain in his arm and worked his way slowly back down the cliff face.

"No bad guy?" he panted when he reached Sam.

"Not yet," Sam replied, his voice thin with pain.

Dean dug into Sam's pack for the flashlight with the halogen lamp on the side. "Think this will draw it?"

"We'll smell it," Sam said.

"Come again?"

"We'll smell it if it comes back."

Dean cocked his head to the side, studying his brother. "Look at the college boy," he teased, a soft grin tugging up the corner of his mouth. "Pretty smart, there, Sammy."

He flicked on the halogen lamp, then dug the first aid kit out. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to block the sweat that seemed determined to fall into his eyes, reached around and drew out his knife from its sheath in his waistband, then gently cut away Sam's jeans starting just above the knee. He sliced the material down the center so that it just fell off Sam's leg. He registered that when focused on this task – caring for his brother – his vision remained thankfully steady.

He didn't realize he'd been humming a steadying beat until he saw Sam's head quirk up.

"Dude, is that… Zepplin?"

Dean's hands paused. "Uh, yeah. Huh."

"You do that a lot, you know," Sam said, his eyes steady on Dean's.

"What?"

"Count the beats in a song," Sam said, watching Dean's eyebrows go up in surprise. "Mostly when you're hurting."

Dean could recognize a veiled attempt at checking on him when he heard one. "I'm fine, Sam."

"Well, I'm not," Sam said.

"Yeah, that much is clear, little brother," Dean muttered, gathering the items he'd need from the first aid kit.

"Can you… can you sing it for me?" Sam asked through clenched teeth.

"What?" Dean's head shot up in surprise.

"Y'know, like you used to," Sam breathed out, trying to ride the wave of pain.

"Sam, that was… a long time ago," Dean said, completely surprised by the request.

"I won't tell."

Dean looked at his brother, the pain pulling his skin taut across his features, the set of his jaw, the paleness of his skin. "Yeah, okay," he said, then, "You want me to warn you?"

"When you start singing?"

"When I set this," Dean said.

"No."

Dean licked his lips, pulling his lower one in and clamping it between his teeth for a moment. He poured the antiseptic over the small hole Sam's bone protruded from. Sam groaned through clenched teeth squeezing his eyes shut tight.

"_Leaves are falling all around, it's time I was on my way. Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay."_

He placed his left hand, his weaker hand, on the side of Sam's bone, and gripped Sam's leg with his right one. John had taught them field medicine early on, knowing that he would need help after hunting…

"_But now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way. For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way."_

Sam's scream when he pulled the leg straight echoed off of the cave walls. It seemed to go on for hours, though in reality it lasted barely ten seconds. The scream tore into Dean and he actually curled over Sam's leg.

"Easy," he whispered, keeping his hands on Sam's leg as the scream subsided into trembling whimpers as Sam fought for control. "Easy, kiddo, it's over now."

"Holy s-shit," Sam gasped, tears in his voice.

"You did good, Sam," Dean's voice was a low murmur, as if talking his brother back from a ledge.

"Damn, that hurt," Sam said, trying to suck it up, trying to take it. The way he knew his brother would. The way he knew his brother _had_ because it was what his father wanted.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed. "It's okay now."

Sam blinked at those words. Those words he'd heard Dean say to one of them so many times…

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Jefferson City, MO 1989

_Dean had put him to bed two hours ago, but he couldn't sleep. He could see the light from the TV flickering in the next room. Dad was supposed to have been home this morning. He promised. He'd promised _Dean_. He never broke his promises to Dean unless something real bad happened. Sam got out of bed and crept to the door, trying to be really quiet, wanting to ask his brother to come to bed. He could sleep if Dean were there._

"_Go back to bed, Sammy."_

_Dean sounded like Dad. How did he always know?_

"_When is he gonna be back, Dean?"_

"_Soon, kiddo, now go to bed," Dean turned away from the TV and his tired hazel eyes met Sam's. Sam saw him smile with those eyes, even as his mouth stayed serious. Sam hadn't said anything, but the older Dean got, the less he saw the smiles in his eyes. He liked those smiles._

"'_kay."_

_He had no sooner climbed into bed when he heard the pounding at the door._

"_Dean," he heard his father call to his brother. "Let me in, son."_

"_What's the password," Dean's voice was hard, and Sam knew that the rifle that was almost as long as Dean was tall was resting comfortably in his brother's capable hands._

"_Zepplin rules."_

_Sam sighed. Dean got to choose this week._

_He heard the chain release from the door and the door creak open. He heard Dean's gasp of surprise and the rifle clatter to the floor. He heard his father groan in pain and he heard something that sounded like someone hitting the floor. He wanted to get up and see, but he was suddenly afraid._

"_Son," Dad's voice sounded funny. It sounded shaky like Sam's did when he'd been crying. Was Dad crying? Dad didn't cry. _

"_I got it, I got it, Dad," Dean was saying. Sam could hear his brother moving around and he listened hard to figure out where he was in the small apartment. Kitchenette, bathroom, back to the living room. _

"_Dean," Dad started again._

"_It's okay, Dad. It's okay, now." Sam heard Dean's voice, steady, sure. His brother sounded older than Dad. Sam knew he was taking care of it. He knew Dad would be okay now because Dean was there._

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"Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam gasped out.

"You still with me?"

"Yeah."

"I need to step away a second and get something to splint this with, okay?"

"'Kay."

"Don't move."

"'Kay."

Dean was gone no more than two minutes, but Sam had already started to panic.

"I'm here," Dean panted. "You hanging in there?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's not as bad now."

"I'll give you something here in a second," Dean said, wiping the sweat from his brow again as it started to run into his eyes. It was starting to get annoying. He wasn't even hot anymore. He noticed Sam shiver.

"You cold?"

"A little."

"Let me get this, and we'll build a fire," Dean said.

"What about the –"

"I don't smell anything," Dean said quickly. "Besides, Sam, it's dark out there. We're going to have to wait here until morning and we can get out of here."

"Yay. Camping."

"I don't like it any more than you do, believe me," Dean grumbled.

Actually, Sam thought, as he felt Dean steady his fractured leg with what felt like two thick sticks, Dean probably liked it a lot less than Sam. He had a thing about camping since their last encounter with a wendigo.

"No more wendigos," Sam groaned as Dean shucked his jacket and long-sleeved shirt, then pulled his white T-shirt over his head.

"We drawing a line, there, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam looked at his brother, noticing his shivering in the cold at the sudden loss of clothing. He watched Dean cut the T-shirt he'd been wearing into strips. "We don't do wendigos."

Dean looked up with a half grin and Sam's breath caught, seeing his brother clearly in the light of the halogen lamp.

"Dean."

Dean focused on Sam, hearing the change in his brother's tone. "You okay?"

"Your head, man," Sam said.

Dean gave him a look that said 'do I have horns or what'.

"Dude, you're bleeding all over the place," Sam said, pointing to the T-shirt.

Dean wiped at what he'd thought was sweat and this time looked at his hand. It was covered in blood. The T-shirt he was cutting up was blood-smeared. He reached up to feel where the worst of the pain had been thrumming and felt about a two inch gash on the side of his head.

"Huh," he said.

"Huh? You lose a pint of blood and all you can say is _huh_?"

"Don't be such a girl, Sam," Dean scoffed, continuing to cut up the T-shirt. "You know head wounds always look worse than they are."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Dean didn't bother to look at him. Instead he answered while securing the branches he'd found to Sam's broken leg. "No more than ten, no less than one."

"Dean."

"Sam," he echoed in the same warning tone. "I'm fine, okay?" He lifted his eyes to Sam's. "I'm _fine_."

He had put butterfly bandages across the hole in Sam's leg and used a couple of the cleaner strips of his T-shirt to pad the wound, then carefully wrapped the bandages around Sam's leg. The tree limbs might rub on him a little, but the bone wasn't going anywhere and that was the important thing.

Dean's shivering increased as he worked; the minute he was done, he pulled his long-sleeved shirt back on, hissing as the material slid over the cuts on his arm. Sam had remained silent after his last decree that he was fine, and was just watching him. Silence on Sam's part wasn't all that unusual. Pouting wasn't either. But as Dean lifted his eyes to his brother's and saw the stark pain reflected there, he sighed.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," he said.

Sam worked his jaw. He slid his eyes away from Dean in an effort to get himself under control.

"I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you," Dean reminded him.

"What about you?" Sam's voice was soft and Dean saw him shiver.

Dean covered Sam's chest and arms with his jacket.

"What about me what?"

"What if something bad happens to you?"

Dean swallowed. Sam sounded very young in that moment. "Impossible," he claimed. "I lead a charmed life."

The incredulous look Sam shot him caused Dean to grin. He picked up the flashlight and stood slowly, surveying their surroundings. The boulder that had knocked Sam from the cliff rested in a little sloped area just beyond them.

"Well, looks like you picked as good a place as any to stay for the night."

"You picked it."

Dean rotated the light over to Sam.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. It's where you landed. I just crawled over to get the flare."

"Nice. Look, my brother's a boneless heap on the cave floor… hey maybe he has a flare gun…"

Sam couldn't help but grin at Dean's tone. "Just following the rules, man."

Dean lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin, crouching down to dig through the duffels. "What number is that, two or three?"

"Bad guys first, soldiers second?"

"Yeah."

"Two. He made that rule when I was ten and you almost got killed trying to get him out of the way of that poltergeist in Jackson."

Dean nodded with a small smile, and handed Sam three pain killers and the only bottle of regular water they had. Sam swallowed them gratefully, pulling Dean's jacket tighter around him. "Is there a three?"

"I think that's arbitrary," Dean said, his eyebrows lifting and he looked to see what else they had with them in their duffels. "It's either always be prepared, never stop fighting 'til the fight's done, or clean up the car before it rusts… y'know depending on his mood."

Dean felt Sam's eyes on him as he pulled out the remaining guns, holy water, peanut M&Ms, two spare flares, and the first aid kit. Not much there.

"At least you have provisions," Sam commented. Dean looked up at him, and noticed his eyes were on the bag of M&Ms.

He grinned. "Never leave home without them."

Sam watched his brother move the supplies into one duffel, then he cut open the other one, laying it flat. He cut off the handles and stuffed them into the full duffel, then spread the flattened bag over Sam's legs. Keeping his center of balance low to the ground, Dean cleaned off a space of cave floor just beyond Sam. He handed his brother the bag of M&Ms.

"I'm going to get us some firewood," he said. "Save me some," he nodded to the yellow bag.

Sam watched as Dean stood and tensed as he saw his brother's eyes blink closed with a line of pain between them. Dean swayed on his feet and Sam was sure he was going to topple over. He reached his hand out from under the coat, but Dean managed to steady himself and without another word, turned toward the cave exit.

"Dean –"

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean muttered as he walked outside to gather firewood.

Sam hated that word. Of all the lies his brother told, it was the biggest, most frequent one. Watching Dean's retreating back until he couldn't see him anymore, Sam popped an M&M into his mouth.

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Chattanooga, TN 1991

"_Dude, seriously, go easy on that," Dean's voice was stern._

"_Why?"_

"_Because there isn't much left. You want breakfast, right?"_

"_Can't we just… go to the store?"_

"_No."_

"_Why not?"_

_Dean sighed and looked over at him. Sam could see that it was on the tip of his tongue to play Dad's 'because I said so' card, but he knew Dean hated that as much as he did. _

"_Because we're out of money until Dad gets back, and I don't want to…"_

_Sam nodded so that Dean didn't have to finish. He didn't want to have to steal food again. He hated it – mostly because of the danger of being caught. Dean was good, but if he slipped up, it would mean the end for their family. _

"_What about you?"_

"_I'm fine, Sammy," Dean held up a one pound bag of peanut M&Ms, half-gone. Sam stared at it. Dean had been carrying it around for two days. _

"_What else have you eaten?"_

"_Don't worry about it, little brother. I'm fine. Get your book bag and we'll go through your homework."_

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Sam stared at the bag in his hands as the memory washed over him. Dad had been two days late. And when he got back, he'd smelled like whiskey. By the time he got home, Dean was pale and shaky, but he helped his Dad unpack and clean the guns before he asked for any money, silencing Sam with a well-timed glare. They'd gone to the store, and afterwards Dean had eaten three ham sandwiches and four glasses of milk in about ten minutes time. Since then, Sam didn't think he'd ever seen his brother without the chocolate candy.

"You gonna eat those or stare holes through the bag?"

Sam jumped, crumpling the bag between his hands. "Dude, you scared the crap outta me."

"Shame on you, Sammy," Dean shook his head. "I shouldn't be able to sneak up on you."

Sam just glared at him. The painkillers were making his head fuzzy, but the pain in his leg had been reduced to a dull ache. Slowly, so as not to disturb the splint, he used his hands and pulled himself back until he could prop himself back against the wall.

"You doing okay?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, just watching his brother. He rotated the lamp until it was pointed in Dean's direction. He watched with fascination as Dean piled the firewood he'd gathered on one side of him, sat down and pulled some of the dried twigs and leaves he'd found into a pile and set a short piece of wood beside them. He then unlaced one of his boots, tied either end of the lace to one of two equal-lengthed sticks, then stood the second stick up on the flat piece of wood and wrapped the bootlace once around the stick. The end result looked like he was playing a violin against the bow, rather than the other way around.

He began to pull the stick with the string on it rapidly, turning the other stick against the flat piece of wood.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?"

Dean lifted his head to briefly meet Sam's eyes. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I think you're trying to… make a fire."

"You sure you didn't hit _your_ head, Sammy?"

"Dad never taught us that," Sam ignored his brother's comment. Dad had taught them to be prepared. Extra prepared. He would have chewed Dean's ass for not having waterproof matches in the packs.

"So."

"So… where'd you learn it?"

Dean paused in his efforts, lifting his eyes to Sam, as thought weighing the consequences of confession. "MacGyver."

"The TV Show?"

"No, Sam, MacGyver my imaginary friend," Dean resumed the rubbing. Smoke started to filter up from the top of the vertical stick. "There was an episode once where Mac—"

"You're on a first name basis with him?"

"Dude, you want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry."

"And that's not his first name."

"My bad."

"Anyway," Dean sighed. "He takes a bunch of kids out on some sort of get-over-being-a-delinquent trip into the wilderness and the plane crashes…"

"Oh great. Way to go, _Mac_."

"Not like he crashed the plane," Dean protested, rubbing faster as the smoke began to build. "So, since they're stuck out there until help arrives he does all kinds of stuff to help them help themselves to survive."

"Did it work?"

Dean grinned as his efforts paid off. Flames sparked from the end of the stick and Dean brushed the dried twigs and leaves on top of the tiny fire. When they caught, he started to add more firewood until eventually he had a fire large enough to illuminate their immediate area and the cave up to the cliff wall.

"It's MacGyver. The dude can make a bomb out of a soup can and a roll of duct tape. 'Course it worked."

As the boys looked around, they were amazed to see crude drawings on the walls of the cave, and in the ceiling, a phenomenal site. The cave was like the crest of a giant geode. On the ceiling, reflecting in the firelight, thousands of crystals of varying length and color sparkled down at them.

"Damn," Dean whispered.

"This ever happen on MacGyver?"

"Not even close."

"What are those markings?"

Dean leaned forward, inspecting them closer. "Some kind of Indian markings maybe?" He looked over his shoulder to Sam, unconsciously wiping more blood from his eye with the back of his hand. "What were those markings we saw in Lost Creek?"

Sam saw the blood on his brother's hand. His lips thinned. "Dean, let's take care of your head."

"Huh?"

"Your _head_, dude. It's still bleeding."

Dean blinked, looking genuinely puzzled. He turned his hand over and saw the blood on the back of it. He was suddenly very thirsty. Wiping the back of his hand on his jeans, he moved back over to Sam in a low crouch.

"Lemme have some of that water, Sam," he said, reaching his hand out. Sam handed him the bottle, reaching for the duffel and the first aid kit.

"Some day trip," Sam muttered.

Dean took a shallow swallow from the bottle, capped it and set it down next to Sam. "What?"

"Easy hunt, fire up a wendigo, we're back in the car inside of two hours," Sam said, recalling Dean's words from earlier.

"How was I supposed to know there would be two of them?"

Sam just shook his head. They hadn't been prepared. End of story. If they ever ran into their Dad again, if they ever found him again, he was going to be pissed if he ever found out about this hunt. He pulled the first aid kit from the pack.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, sitting next to Sam in a low crouch, balanced on the balls of his feet. He'd been looking at the markings on the cave walls, trying to figure out why they looked familiar… something about the pattern more than the drawings themselves… something about the way they were organized was tickling his memory. His eyes caught on Sam's movement.

"I'm gonna clean up your head, Dean."

"It's fine, Sam."

"Dude, _stop_ it. It's not fine. You can't bleed for an hour and be fine."

"It's not bleeding that bad."

"You should see yourself, man. You look like something out of a John Carpenter movie."

Sam rolled his eyes when Dean's mouth flicked up in a grin. "You're impossible."

Dean shook his head. "Seriously, Sam, we've got more important things to worry about."

"Such as?"

Dean lifted a brow. "Your leg getting infected for one. Getting the hell back to the car tomorrow morning for another. Don't know if you noticed this, little brother, but you're awfully big to be carried."

"You're not carrying me."

"Damn straight. But you aren't walking either."

Sam looked down at his leg; the dull ache was ever-present, but he could now feel a strange heat building around where Dean had done his best to close up the hole and stop the bleeding. How the hell were they going to get out of there?

"You'll just have to go for help and come back for me."

Dean shook his head once, decisively. "No. No way."

"Dean, it's the only thing that makes sense."

Dean's eyes were hard, his jaw set. "I'm not leaving you, Sam."

"You wouldn't be _leaving_ me… you'd be going for help."

"No, and that's the end of it. I'll get us out of here," Dean looked back up at the markings on the walls again. "Somehow."

Sam shook his head again, but the look in Dean's eyes suddenly shifted. He looked… confused.

"Dean?"

Dean just blinked at him.

"You okay, man?"

Dean blinked again and shook his head. The left side of his face was a mottled mixture of red and brown from the dirt and dried blood and the fresh blood that continued to seep from his head wound. He reached up with a clumsy hand and swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Just, uh," he pulled his eyebrows together and looked at Sam. "Just gimme a minute, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, growing increasingly worried by the second. Dean put his hands on the tops of his knees and stood. The minute he did so, Sam knew it was a mistake. "Dean!"

Dean blinked again, and reached out blindly for the cave wall. "Whoa."

"Dean, sit down, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean whispered. And then his knees buckled. Unable to move, all Sam could do was instinctively reach his arms out. He managed to catch Dean's shoulders and prevent him from injuring himself further by cracking his head again.

"Dean?" Sam was in an awkward, twisted position in an effort to keep his splinted leg steady and catch his brother. With a strong heave he turned Dean onto his back and pulled his head and shoulders into his lap. "Dean?"

Under the dried blood Dean's face was pale, his lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks from the dancing firelight. His lips were slightly parted and his breath was coming in short bursts.

"Dammit," Sam growled. "Stupid, stubborn bastard. Hope your head is hard."

Sam ran a tired hand over his eyes. He had to get a grip. Clean out Dean's wound while he was out so that he couldn't protest. Get him to wake up, because he _knew_ he had a concussion. Sam shivered and looked over at the fire. He had to do that fast before the fire died out or they would both freeze to death. Autumn night, northern Minnesota woods, minimal supplies, no blankets, in a wendigo's lair. Perfect Winchester evening.

As he reached for the first aid kit, he heard the unmistakable sound of gravel falling from the cliff face above. Sam lifted his eyes to the darkness above and saw two eyes reflecting the light that danced from the crystals on the ceiling.

"Oh, shit," he breathed.

WWW

_a/n: The song Dean sings to distract Sam is "Ramble On" by Led Zepplin. Seemed fitting. _

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: With the situation the boys are in, talking is not only inevitable, it's essential to their survival. I hope I've done them justice throughout the following chapter... don't worry, though, there is more action and struggle for the boys to deal with coming up… _

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. You have humbled me with your response to this fic so far. I hope you enjoy the ride… _

_Kelly, as always, you rock._

_www_

_What a foolish notion, that war is called devotion, when the greatest warriors are the ones who stand for peace. – Holly Near_

Ramble On – Part 2

Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulders as he pinned his eyes to the feral ones reflecting the crystal light above him. He knew almost immediately that it wasn't a wendigo – he couldn't smell the horrid, rank odor that gave the creature away in the small confines of the cave. But at this point a house cat would have set Sam on edge. He couldn't move beyond a dragging crawl, and he damn sure wasn't going to leave Dean, unconscious and defenseless.

Using the dancing light from the fire he cast his eyes around to see what was in easy reach. The only things he saw were the bag of peanut M&Ms – _that will be a lot of help_… what was he going to do, throw candy at it – and the flare gun he'd pulled from Dean's hands. It was resting on the cave floor on his left side where it had fallen when Dean came to and set his leg. He remembered seeing Dean pull two other flares from the pack. That meant they had three total if the wendigo returned.

He looked back up to the ledge and was startled to see the eyes had disappeared. He looked frantically all along the ledge but could see nothing. He almost allowed himself to relax when he heard it. A low growl that lifted the fine hairs on the back of his neck. A dog? _No, Sam, you idiot_, he chided himself. It was a wolf. And from the sound of it, a large one.

He darted his eyes again but couldn't seem to focus on anything except the light from the fire reflecting off of the crystals. _Look away from the flames,_ the voice in his head that was Dean reminded him. _Keep your eyes on the shadows. Move when they move._

"Dean," Sam whispered, turning his eyes from the firelight and looking at the shadows until he was able to see more. "Dean, man, wake up." His right arm was across Dean's chest, his fingers tight on his brother's left shoulder. He could feel something sticky there… blood? He put his left hand lightly on the top of Dean's head, turning his brother's face toward him. He didn't look down at him – kept his eyes away from the firelight -- but he just felt better knowing that when Dean _did_ open his eyes, he would be looking at him.

"Hey, man," Sam shook him slightly. "C'mon… come on back to me, Dean."

Dean was limp in his arms. He didn't even groan in protest when Sam shook him. Sam closed his eyes and counted in his head, a trick he'd seen Dean do when he needed to hear something that he couldn't see. Off to his right he heard the sound of small stones being tossed over larger ones. He heard what sounded like nails on the ground, and he realized he could hear the wolf approaching. There must be a ledge narrow enough to be missed when looking up, but wide enough that the wolf could work its way down to them.

Sam opened his eyes and jerked involuntarily. The large animal was standing about eight feet from them. Its fur was pitch black, its eyes large and yellow, and its lips were pulled up in a snarl vicious enough to make Sam's skin crawl.

"Dean," Sam said again, reaching down to pat Dean's cheek, praying for a response. _This is just…wrong,_ Sam thought desperately. They'd started this whole gig as an easy job. Read in the paper where some people were missing from a local Indian reservation, how there bodies were found near the cave, mutilated as if by a bear. Dean's eyes had lit up, knowing exactly what it was, and how to kill it.

"_We can do something about this, Sam," _he'd said. _"We can stop this. No one else has to die."_

For Dean, the hunt was more about saving people then hunting things. Sam had recognized that long ago, when he'd first been allowed to come on the hunts. His father and brother approached the hunt with the same fierce determination and unwavering focus, but they moved from two different motivations. John wanted the bastard _dead_; Dean wanted to keep people alive.

The wolf didn't move, didn't advance, simply stared at Sam with the perma-snarl on its snout. Sam could tell that it was your basic garden-variety wolf. Pure animal. Werewolves were bigger, and they never took the time to study you as this one was doing. They were vicious killers; their only focus was to eat you or turn you.

The wolf took a step forward and Sam raised the flare gun. His arm was shaking, from fear, from the pain, from the painkillers…he wasn't sure, but he wasn't able to keep the wolf in his sights. He lifted his other hand from Dean's shoulder and tried to brace it, but the barrel of the gun bounced from the wolf to the cave wall and back.

The wolf took another step forward, its lips raised in a high-octane snarl, the growl building from its chest and rolling out through the night to settle on Sam like a blanket of nails. Sam took a deep breath, still working to aim the gun. The wolf took two quick steps forward, then paused again.

"Don't," Sam whispered, his aim wavering, his arms weakening. Suddenly, surprisingly, a hand braced his at the wrist from below.

"Aim to its left and close your eyes," Dean's voice was low and steady, and the relief that flowed through Sam at that sound almost caused him to drop his arms. But Dean's arm was there, steadying him. Sam shifted his aim as Dean instructed, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The flare illuminated the cave with bright red light just beyond the body of the wolf. The animal yelped, jumped, and sprang for the entrance of the cave, practically leaping over Sam's legs in its fright. Coughing from the smoke emitted from the still burning flare, Sam blinked his eyes open and looked down at his brother.

"Nice timing," he wheezed, his relief at Dean's being awake overpowering his worry that his brother had collapsed again.

"Don't mention it," Dean coughed, curling over and off of Sam's lap, holding his head as the force of the coughs slammed pressure through his broken skull. "Where the hell did it come from?"

Sam cleared his throat and shrugged. "I guess the tunnel that Wendigo Jones rolled that boulder from."

Dean wiped smoke-induced tears from his stinging eyes and blinked up at Sam from his curled position. He stared at him almost a full minute before breaking into a genuine smile. "Nice one, Sammy."

Sam smiled back, realizing not for the first time how infrequent actual smiles from his brother were becoming. Sam reached out and gripped Dean's chin, turning his face so that he could get a glimpse of the cut on his head. The flare light was gone and the fire light threw disorienting shadows across Dean's face.

"I get it, I get it," Dean grumbled. "You can play Florence Nightingale all you want as soon as I check your leg."

"No."

"Okay, well you pick the nurse name then," Dean pushed himself to a half-sitting position with his right arm, but stopped when Sam's hand fisted in his shirt.

"Goddammit, Dean, just stop."

Dean looked at him surprised.

"You just keeled over, man. You're lucky you were right here or I wouldn't have been able to catch you."

"_You're_ lucky I was right here or you'd be kibble."

Sam's lips flattened. "How the hell are you going to stop anything bad from happening to me if you're unconscious?" he snapped.

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. "Fine, Sam," he acquiesced. "But just clean it up; don't worry about bandages or whatever."

Sam reached for the first aid kit like Dean had just told him there was a steak dinner inside. "Why the hell not?"

"Because," Dean said. "There's not much left. We need to make sure we take care of that leg."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together in confusion. _Not much left_?What was he talking about? The first thing they always did was restock the first aid kit. He started pawing through the box but slowed as he saw that Dean was right.

"I don't get it," Sam said. "After we left Sarah…"

Dean just looked at him. After they left Sarah at her father's auction house, Dean went to get ammo while Sam restocked the first aid kit. Only… only he hadn't… he'd gotten distracted researching this hunt, this job, something else to do, something else to fight, something else that was more than _not_ finding Dad, _not _finding Jessica's killer, more than just…existing.

"Oh, shit… shit Dean this is my fault," Sam breathed. He lifted stricken eyes to Dean. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "I didn't know until I got into it for your leg."

A cloud of guilt settled on Sam's shoulders like it was coming home. He lifted miserable eyes to Dean's and to his complete surprise, saw no accusation there. He saw pain, weariness, and worry. Dean blinked his gaze down, then shifted so that Sam could better reach the cut on his head.

"You're not mad?"

Dean lifted a brow and looked at him. "For what?"

"Dean, we started this hunt completely unprepared," Sam said.

"Exactly. _We_ did. This isn't your fault, Sam."

Sam lifted the first aid kit. "This is."

Dean sighed and shifted his eyes to sideways to meet Sam's. "Let it go, man. It's okay."

And Sam saw in his brother something that, for him, had always been missing from his relationship with John: understanding. Sure he screwed up. Dean knew it, he knew it. But he could see in the set of his brother's shoulders, the tilt of his head, the softness of his eyes that he registered the lesson had been learned. Enough said. John never seemed to believe that enough had been said.

"Dad would have chewed my ass for this," Sam said softly as he reached for the antiseptic and some gauze patches.

Dean shrugged. "It's just his way, Sam."

"His way of what," Sam grumbled, gently wiping the blood from Dean's face around the cut. He paused for only a second when Dean flinched.

"Being worried," Dean said.

Sam lifted a brow. "Whatever."

"I'm serious, Dude."

"That makes as much sense as saying a boy pulls a girl's pigtails because he likes her."

Dean looked at him sideways, his mouth quirking down. "You mean that doesn't work?"

Sam just shook his head. They were silent for a few more moments while Sam cleaned Dean's head, trying unsuccessfully to completely stop the blood. It continued to seep. Dean didn't seem to notice, though. His eyes were directed at the fire, but he was looking a million miles away.

"He does, you know," he said softly.

"Who does what?"

"Dad. He worries about you."

Sam squirmed. There it was again. Dean left himself out of the equation without even thinking about it. Sam hated that. And he hated his father for making that the case. And he honestly didn't understand why Dean _didn't_ hate him. Why he always saw reason behind John's actions. Why he never broke, ever, when John leaned on him.

"Sam," Dean turned and looked at him.

"If you say so," Sam sighed.

The longer he was away from his Dad, Sam realized, the easier it was to convince himself that he didn't care. He turned Dean's head away from him, ignoring his brother's annoyed flinch, and continued to clean the stubborn gash. When he left for school, he spent almost a year burning with anger at John, at the injustice of his non-childhood. Every time he automatically dropped into a fighting stance when surprised, or when he put a line of salt in front of his apartment door without thinking, or when he woke in the night drenched in sweat from a nightmare, he'd silently curse his father.

When he'd met Jessica his second year, the anger had drained and had been replaced by a strange sort of nostalgia. He would remember random instances of times when he'd been comforted, protected, safe, and loved – all within the shelter of his father's arms. When Jess died and Dean showed up, finding Dad had consumed him. Each day that passed without contact turned the heat of his anger up a little more. Then they _did _find him. And for one brief, fleeting instant, he had been a son again. Not a soldier, not a rebel, not a force to be reckoned with, but a son.

_And then he left again…because the demon was an evil son of a bitch… because Dad's vulnerable when he's with us… because Dean let him go…_

"Sam, easy!" Dean flinched, pulling his head away. "Dude, when I said you could choose the nurse name, I didn't expect it to be Ratchet."

Sam blinked. "Sorry, man."

Dean started to shove himself away.

"Wait!"

"What now, you want to poke me in the eye or something?"

Sam tossed the bloody gauze patch aside. "I'm sorry, man… I was just…"

"Thinking about Dad."

Sam looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"

Dean pushed himself to his knees, closing his eyes for a moment as his vision swam. He looked over at Sam, pulling the corner of his mouth up. "Who's your brother, Sam?"

It was a familiar question. One that had pulled Sam out of nightmares, out of tantrums, out of anger. One that grounded him when he was lost. "You are, Dean."

"'Nuff said," Dean nodded, and lifted the duffel blanket to look at Sam's leg. It was hard to see clearly by the light of the fire, so without thinking he reached with is left arm to grab the flashlight. The white-hot pain from the wendigo-inflicted cuts on his arm sliced through him like a punch.

Sam's head came up at his brother's gasp of pain. "What is it?"

"Nothing, hold still."

"Dean."

"Just my arm," Dean said, holding the flashlight with his right hand. "It's fine, I just… moved it."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What a dumb thing to do. How many times have I told you not to move your arm?"

"Shut up." Dean gently touched Sam's leg beneath the bandage. The skin was swollen and had started to press against the sticks. Dean cursed under his breath. He'd been afraid of that. He set the flashlight down and grabbed the first aid kit.

"How you feeling, Sammy?"

Sam had tilted his head back against the cave wall. "Stupid."

"I'm being serious," Dean shuffled through the kit, but nothing new had materialized there since last he looked. No antibiotics. Nothing. He pressed his lips together. What they really needed was Brenna's purple goo. It had saved his life twice over now.

"Fine then," Sam snapped, lifting his head to look at Dean. "My leg hurts like a bitch, I'm cold and hot at the same time, I'm a fucking idiot for falling off the goddamn ledge and for not restocking the first aid kit, and I'm mad at Dad."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "That's a lot of information to take in ten seconds."

"You asked," Sam swallowed and tilted his head back.

Dean covered Sam's leg again, then slouched down to sit with his legs folded under him. He covered his face with weary hands, exhaling slowly and hoping the pain would escape with his breath. His head was pounding and he was getting tired of not being able to focus completely on anything. He dropped his hands and noticed a faint red smear on the left one. He reached up and wiped off the blood that was still seeping from the gash on his head.

"Why are you mad at Dad, Sam," Dean asked.

Sam just closed his eyes.

"I thought we'd, y'know, moved past this," Dean tried again.

"Moved past what, the fact that he's been doing everything in his power over the last year to get rid of us?" Sam's voice was low, but the undercurrent of pain and anger caused it to tremble.

"Sam, don't do this," Dean sighed.

Sam just clenched his jaw. Dean leveled his eyes on his brother's face, but Sam refused to look at him.

"Look, man, I get it. I do," Dean sighed, shivered, and turned to put more wood on the fire, building it up high to ward off the chills that started from his left arm and wrapped around his body. "This year… it's been hard, but…"

"But what?"

_But the two years that you were away were harder… but I can't stand to see you so angry at him… but if you could just see how you are exactly like him …_

"But you gotta understand that he –"

"Dean, I swear to God if you say he has his reasons – "

"He does! Sam, he does," Dean moved to sit on the other side of Sam, putting Sam between himself and the warmth of the fire; putting himself between Sam and the mouth of the cave. He pulled the duffel with him, loading and cocking the .45 and setting it on top.

Sam's jaw was tight, and his eyes on the fire. "His damn rules, and the fact that he never listens, and the fact that he's always right…"

"I'll give you the never listens," Dean said softly, flashing immediately to Brenna as he did whenever he thought about trying to get his father to listen to him. "But the rules were made to keep us safe."

"Ha."

"What?"

"We do what we do and we shut up about it? How is _that_ keeping us safe?"

Dean twisted his head sideways to stare incredulously at Sam. "I can't believe you don't remember."

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Omaha, NE 1992

"_Just get your stuff together, Sam!" Dean's voice was hard and heavy with worry. He slammed the door behind him, tossing the house keys on the table so that they skidded and settled in the middle. He chased Sam's heels back to the apartment's one bedroom. When Dad was home, he slept on the couch._

"_I don't see what the big deal is," Sam grumbled. "Dad isn't even here yet."_

_Dean grabbed his brother's shoulder and turned him around, looking down at his sullen brown eyes. "We have to be ready to go when he gets here."_

_Sam stomped away from Dean and into the bedroom. He wrenched open the closet's accordion doors, grabbed his bag, and started pulling his clothes off of the hangers. Dean never really completely unpacked in any place they lived – apartment or hotel – so packing for him was a quick process._

_Sam had just about finished when there was a knock at the door. Both boys froze. The knock came again, more of an irritated rap than the insistent pounding that would indicate it was John. Dean held his breath. _Go away, go away, go away._ Sam kept his eyes on his brother and mimicked his frozen stance. After about five minutes with no more knocking, they cautiously exited the bedroom and Dean stood on his tiptoes to look out of the peep hole. _

_A man and a woman dressed in suits and carrying some papers in their hands were standing outside, waiting patiently by the door._

Shit_, Dean bounced his head once in frustration. He looked at Sam who stood silently next to him, as close as his own shadow, looking at him with question marks in his eyes. Dean shook his head once, waiting._

_Through the door, slightly muffled, they suddenly heard, "Mr. Winchester, we'd like a word with you."_

"_I'm going in to see to my boys," John answered. "I'll deal with you later."_

"_But, Mr. Winchester –"_

"_Not now," John's tone left no room for argument. Dean grinned at that. Sam trembled. _

_They heard the key in the lock and stepped away from the door, back and to the left so that when it opened, they would be hidden from the people standing outside. John stepped inside, shut the door and turned to where he knew his boys would be standing. He lifted a finger to his lips and they nodded in unison._

_The three Winchesters stood motionless for what seemed like decades to Dean, but then John looked out of the peephole and saw that they were gone. He turned to his sons._

"_Dean," he said. "Tell me."_

_Dean swallowed. "Dad, it wasn't his fault. He likes this teacher… a lot, and when she asked why I was meeting him after school and where you were…"_

_John's dark eyes switched from Dean to Sam. Sam unconsciously tucked his shoulder behind Dean. "Sammy, what did you say?"_

"_I-I just said that you were gone a lot and Dean took care of me," Sam said softly._

"_Did you tell her what I did when I left?"_

_Sam looked up at Dean, who nodded at him._

"_I-I just said that," Sam swallowed, "That you kill monsters."_

_John sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, running them back over his hair and leaving finger valleys through the thick, brown hair. "Sammy, c'mhere."_

_Sam hesitantly stepped out from behind Dean and walked up to his Dad. John put a hand on Sam's shoulder, looking down into his son's eyes. "New rule. You listening?" John's dark eyes flicked up to catch Dean in his question._

"_Yessir," they both answered._

"_We do what we do and we shut up about it."_

_They nodded. _

"_You understand?"_

"_Yessir," they answered._

"_Sammy, those people outside? They were from Child Protective Services. Do you know what that means?"_

"_They were gonna arrest me?" Sam's eyebrows scrunched together._

"_They could take you away from me," John squatted down so that he was eye-level with Sam. "They could take both of you away from me, and they would put you in separate homes."_

_At that, Sam's eyes flew over to Dean. His brother stood silent, pale. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes, which always seemed too big for his face, were pinned to his father like a life-line._

"_You mean, 'cause I told?"_

"_Yeah, kiddo."_

"_Oh," Sam's voice shrank. He didn't want them to take him from Dean. Dad was gone a lot of the time anyway, but Dean? What would he do if they took his brother away? "I won't say anything anymore, Dad."_

"_I know you won't, because what's the rule?"_

"_We do what we do and we shut up about it," they said in unison._

"_Now get your things, we gotta scram," John said standing up. _

"_We're ready, Dad," Dean said. John blinked at him, slightly surprised that Dean would know to scuttle the ship so quickly. He didn't know why he was surprised. His boy was 13 going on 30. He'd been grown up since the day he carried his brother out of the house and away from the fire._

"_Good, okay," John nodded, turning to get the guns and ammo from under the couch._

"_Dad?" Sam's voice stopped him._

_John turned to see both of his sons staring at him. "Yeah, Sam?"_

"_You won't let them take us, right?"_

_John swallowed hard, his eyes shifting to Dean who stood silently, waiting to see what John would say. John bent down so that he was once again eye-level with Sam. "Never, bud, okay?"_

_Sam narrowed his eyes. "You promise?"_

_John swallowed and wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders. He lifted his eyes to Dean's worried hazel ones. "C'mere, Dude."_

_Dean stepped forward and John rested his other hand on Dean's shoulder. They just stood that way for a moment, connected._

"_I promise. Now get your stuff and get to the car."_

_www_

"I remember," Sam said softly, looking down at his hands in his lap. "I remember now." He remembered the stark fear at the idea that he could lose Dean. He remembered the safe feeling of his father's arms. And he remembered the rule. He never forgot that rule.

He shifted uncomfortably. The ache in his leg had intensified – the painkillers Dean gave him were already wearing off. His face felt hot – like he was sitting too close to the fire. He tried to shove away, but ended up book-ending himself next to Dean. "Dude, scoot over."

"Why?"

"I'm hot," Sam said, unconsciously licking his lips. He looked at Dean expectantly and realized that his brother was shivering. "You're _cold_?"

"It's like 30 degrees in here, Sam."

"Well, I'm too close to the fire then," Sam said, shoving Dean's shoulder with one hand. Dean didn't budge.

"No, you have a fever," Dean said, his lips thinning with worry. "I was afraid of that."

Sam sighed. He rubbed his hand over his face and shrugged Dean's jacket off. "Well, here, then, you take this."

Dean pushed it back at him. "No way, man," he shook his head. "You need to stay warm – we can't afford to let that fever get worse because you're chilled."

Sam clenched his jaw stubbornly, and Dean stared back at him. It was a silent battle of wills, Dean's jacket fisted between them. Sam could see the determination in Dean's eyes, and he knew the wisdom of his brother's words, but there were times he resisted Dean simply for the sake of resisting him.

He lost the battle when his leg reminded him of his predicament with a particularly harsh throb. He jerked in response and Dean's jacket settled back over his chest. Sam closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall, clenching his teeth against the pain until it eased a bit. When he could take a breath without whimpering, he opened his eyes again to see Dean staring at him.

"What?"

"You okay?"

"No," Sam said, muttering, "but there's not much we can do about it."

Moving slowly, and keeping his head as level as possible, Dean climbed across Sam, stoked the fire and took out some more painkillers. He handed them and the water bottle to Sam. Sam swallowed them gratefully.

"Can't give you anymore for awhile, man," Dean said, capping the water and sticking it back in the bag.

"Kill joy," Sam muttered with a half grin.

Dean leaned over to take another look at Sam's leg and as he did so, a wave of black swept over him. He could feel himself falling forward, and some part of him knew he was perched over Sam's leg. He pressed his fists into the cave floor, hard, pushing his body away from Sam. He swallowed, taking deep breaths, willing the darkness away, willing the buzzing in his ears to stop. Every muscle in his body tightened as he worked to keep himself from falling onto Sam, keep himself awake…

Dimly, as though from a great distance, he heard his name… his name in his father's voice. His name barked by John to _get up, get focused…_ He blinked and could see Sam's worried eyes… Sam's face faded out and Dean blinked again and saw the eyes of the wolf in Sam's face… he shook his head and closed his eyes tight, focusing inside of himself, focusing on the place inside that only one person in his life had been able to see, and she had done so accidentally. He found his will there. He grabbed it and held on tight.

He blinked again, and like a camera lens tightening focus, his eyes narrowed in on Sam. Sound rushed back to him and he realized that he was still on his knees, but that Sam was gripping his upper arms, and he was staring at him, hard, saying something over and over. Dean blinked rapidly and focused on what Sam was saying_… with me, man, don't you go, you stay with me, okay? You said you'd get us out of this, and you always do what you say, so you stay with me… are you with me… are you_

"…with me, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean whispered. Then, stronger, "Yeah, Sammy."

"What the hell was that?"

Dean realized that Sam was gripping right across his cuts when he tried to lift his left arm and felt the needle prick stab through him at the movement. He gently shrugged Sam's hands away.

"I think I need more M&Ms," he said with a shaky grin.

Sam wanted to yell at him, to call him a liar, to tell him how his heart had dropped when he saw all of the color leave Dean's face – all but the bright line of red from the still-seeping head wound – and had to watch Dean force himself to fight off unconsciousness. But he didn't. He sat back against the cave wall, and leveled his eyes on Dean.

"You have a concussion, Dean."

"Thank you, Dr. Winchester."

"This isn't good."

"What's your point?"

Sam sighed. He was right. What were they going to do about that? Not like they could even call 9-1-1. Sam had checked for reception before they'd entered the cave… several hours and a lifetime ago. Nothing. No bars. Too far into the woods, too deep into the cave… They were hurt, alone, and there was no back-up coming.

"We can never be this stupid again," Sam declared.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure we can. We shouldn't, but we can," Dean said, climbing carefully back over Sam and positioning himself once again between his brother and the mouth of the cave. The cooler air that occasionally breezed in helped him stay alert.

"Anasazi!"

Dean lifted a brow and slid his eyes to Sam. "Bless you."

"No, man, those markings in Lost Creek. They were Anasazi."

"Dude, you're right," Dean said leaning forward.

Sam's shrug stated 'of course I am'.

"These aren't the same, though," Dean said, looking at the pattern of the drawings on the wall.

Sam, too, leaned forward, "No, but… the way they're arranged…"

Dean nodded excitedly. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking, but…"

Sam instinctively tried to scoot forward, toward the markings. He was viciously reminded to stay put, and sat back with a hiss of pain. The ache in his leg intensified and he gripped it just above the knee.

"What is it, Sam?"

"There's one missing," Sam said through clenched teeth.

"Missing?" Dean looked back over at the markings on the wall. There were five figures arranged in a vaguely familiar pattern, but where a sixth figure could be there instead was a fist-sized chip in the wall. "Huh."

Dean carefully crawled forward and looked at the rocks cluttered at the base of the wall. Could it be that simple? He reached into the pack and drew out the flashlight. Sam watched as Dean silently, methodically picked up each rock at the base of the wall and looked it over. The painkillers made his head fuzzy again and he blinked slowly, letting his body relax.

"Why do you count beats, Dean?"

"Beets?" Dean looked over at Sam like he'd suddenly turned purple.

"In a song. When you're hurt."

"Oh, that," Dean shrugged and continued to pick up rocks, looking for a sign of the markings on them. "I don't know… just a habit I picked up somewhere."

"You don't pick up habits, you develop them."

"Oh, who are you, Freud?"

"Seriously, Dude. You had to have ---"

"God, Sam, you're like a dog with a bone. Why do you do _that_, huh? Why do you keep asking questions?"

"Because I want answers," Sam said simply, watching with satisfaction as Dean's retort was cut off.

"Dad used to sing to me," Dean finally said when the silence had gotten too heavy for him to breathe through. "Happy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Dad?!"

"Yeah, when… after…" Dean sighed and rubbed his forehead, wiping off a thin trail of blood from his temple.

www

Lawrence, KS, 1983

"_Dean, you can't stay in there, son."_

"_Sammy can't sleep."_

"_Sammy's already asleep, Dean. C'mere."_

"_No, Daddy. What if he wakes up?"_

"_I'll take care of him."_

"_What if someone comes before you?"_

"_God, boy, you… you don't have to worry about that, okay?"_

"_Why?"_

"_Come here, Dean."_

"_WHY?"_

"_Why what, Son?"_

"_Why don't I have to worry 'bout that?"_

"_Because I'll watch out for Sammy."_

"_No."_

"_What?"_

"_No, 'cause Mommy said she would."_

"_What?"_

"_Mommy said she would and she's not. So I will. I'll watch out for Sammy."_

"_You don't talk for months…I finally get you to say something, and this is what I get?" _

"_I'll take care of him."_

"_Okay, Bud, but how 'bout… how 'bout I take care of you?"_

"_Me?"_

"_I need you to go to sleep, Dean."_

"_But I don't wanna go…"_

"_How 'bout I sing to you?"_

"_Like Mommy did?"_

"_Sure."_

"'_Kay."_

"_C'mere."_

"_Do you know Mommy's songs?"_

"_Boy, you're heavy. No, Bud. But I know my songs."_

"'_Kay."_

"_Take the highway to the end of the night, end of the night, end of the night, take a journey to the bright midnight, end of the night, end of the night, realms of bliss, realms of light, some are born to sweet delight, some are born to sweet delight, some are born to the endless night, end of the night, end of the night…"_

www

"You wouldn't remember this, Sam, but we lived with Mike and Kate for awhile after the fire."

"Dad's partner Mike? From the garage?"

"Yeah," Dean rolled his neck, not looking at Sam, not looking at the rocks on the cave floor, not really looking at anything. But Sam could guess at what he was seeing. He was seeing a baby in his arms and a house on fire.

"I remember everything just…felt wrong. It's hard to remember specifics, y'know?"

Sam nodded even though Dean wasn't looking at him.

"I couldn't sleep. I remember… I, uh, used to climb into your crib."

"You did?"

The side of Dean's mouth pulled up into a small smile. When he continued, his voice was so low that Sam had to practically hold his breath to hear him. "I had it in my head that if anything came through the door again, I would be there to scare it off… it would have to get me first."

Sam swallowed. His brother never really quit that habit. He still put himself between Sam and the door. "So, uh, when did Dad…"

Dean sighed. "I guess I didn't really, uh… y'know, feel like talking for awhile."

Sam suddenly remembered Lucas Barr. Lucas had witnessed his father drowning by the hands of a water spirit and it had traumatized him into silence. Dean's confession to Lucas had surprised and humbled Sam, showing him a side of his brother that he was ashamed he had never known.

Dean cleared his throat and roused himself from his stare into the middle distance. He turned back to the rocks, methodically sifting through them as he spoke. "So Dad started singing to me when we went to bed. He didn't sing like Mom used to… not… I don't know… flowy like her. He sang in beats. In rhythms. I guess I started the same thing when I felt… out of control somehow."

Sam nodded, swallowing. Nothing could make Dean feel more out of control than being injured. That was when Sam had noticed the singing or the counting – when Dean was hurting.

"I never knew that," Sam said, softly.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Well, how could you, Sam. You were just a baby."

"You see him a lot differently than I do."

Dean looked at his brother over his shoulder. "He was… he's been two different people for me, Sam. You've only seen one." He turned back to sifting through the rocks.

"Dean, were you ever in love before Cassie?"

At this Dean dropped the rock he was holding and gave Sam a sidelong glance. "Okay, random."

"I'm serious. I don't remember you…like _ever_ being with someone more than a night. Ever."

"Where is this coming from, Sam?" Dean hedged.

"I wonder if… I mean, Jess she…"

Dean turned slowly so that he was facing his brother. "What, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. His eyes were bright, reflecting the firelight. Dean couldn't tell from where he sat if it was from the fever, or if they were tears.

"If Jess had lived, I just wonder if…"

"You wonder if it would have lasted."

Sam nodded, his throat working hard.

"Sammy, there's no way to know that. Don't beat yourself up wondering what might have been, especially when…"

"It's just," Sam swallowed and looked down. Dean could see now that the shining in his eyes had been tears as one dropped from his brother's eye and hit his folded hands. "When I was with Sarah, I… I felt real again. Like… like a person again."

"Like Jess made you feel."

Sam nodded again.

Dean pressed his lips together, folding his bottom one in. He sighed. "Sam, it's okay to be a person without Jessica. It's okay," he stressed when Sam shook his head once. "You are never going to forget her. You're never going to forget what happened to her. Even when we kill that evil son of a bitch."

Sam lifted his eyes to Deans, waiting for the good news.

"But, you will forget what it feels like to hurt like this. You will, Sam, I promise," he finished softly.

"How long did it take you?"

Dean's breath caught in his throat. "What?"

"How long did it take you to forget what hurting feels like?"

"Sam, I don't –"

"Cause you can't tell me it didn't hurt you when Cassie pushed you away."

Dean looked away.

"You broke _the_ rule for her, Dean."

"You don't have to remind me, Sam," his voice was hard, his jaw muscles tight. "And yeah," he conceded, tossing rocks to the side with increased force, "it hurt. But it just proved to me what I already knew."

"What's that?"

Dean shrugged, throwing another rock away, hard. "That people leave. It's what they do. Unless you hold onto them." His shoulders sagged a bit, and he added softly, "I guess just didn't hold on tight enough."

"What about Brenna?"

"For God's sake, Sam."

"Well, you didn't tell her."

"She already knew."

"Exactly, and she didn't leave. I mean, she _left_, but…"

"I know what you mean."

"Well?"

"Brenna's… different," Dean tried to push Sam away from that topic. He didn't want to think too much about her, about what she was to him. When he did, the straight path that he saw through his life, the path he had to stay on to keep Sam safe, to stay the course, got blurry, and he couldn't afford that now… or ever.

"Dean –"

"Hey!" Dean shouted suddenly. He lifted a rock the size of his fist, nestled against the bottom of the wall. On one side of it, a sixth marking could clearly be seen.

"Huh," Sam nodded. He watched as Dean fit the rock back into the wall, completing the pattern. Sitting where he was, at the opposite wall from Dean, he could see something his brother could not. "Dude, c'mere."

"What?"

"You gotta see this."

Dean crawled back over to sit next to Sam, away from the fire. He followed Sam's eyeline across to the wall where he'd just been sitting.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

The firelight danced off of the crystals in the ceiling, reflecting a pattern on the wall between the markings. With the sixth marking added, there were five points, with one in the center, all connected by shimmering streams of light reflected from the crystals above.

"It's a pentagram," Sam whispered.

"It's more than that," Dean said, his eyes shifted to his left and out of the mouth of the cave. No sooner was that statement out of his mouth than the stench hit them. "It's a protection charm."

Sam looked away from the light on the cave wall and looked where Dean was looking. At the mouth of the cave. And the second wendigo.

"Dude," Sam whispered. "It's watching us."

"I know."

"Why hasn't it…"

"Biding its time," Dean said not taking his eyes from the creature. "Damn thing is a hunter, Sam. It's not going to go down like its partner did."

The wendigo let out a low gurgling growl and paced at the entrance to the cave. Dean reached into the bag for the flare gun. He loaded it and took slow aim. Just before he pulled the trigger, Sam's hand pulled his arm down.

"What the hell, Sam!"

"We only have two left."

"So?!"

"So what if you miss?"

"I won't miss if you quit pulling on me!"

"It's a protection charm, Dean," Sam insisted.

"What?"

Sam tugged his arm again. "Dude, save the ammo."

Dean blinked at him, not understanding why Sam didn't just let him kill the damn thing and be done with it.

"We're protected here, Dean. Look! It can't get in."

Dean looked back and saw that indeed, the creature was pacing back and forth along the mouth of the cave. As they watched, breathing shallowly in the wake of the creature's stench, it stopped, turned and looked at them.

"Creepy," Dean whispered.

"No doubt."

The wendigo stared at them for a few seconds more, then moving with the dangerous speed legend warned of, it darted away, taking with it the horrid smell. Dean leaned back against the wall, the flare-gun held loosely in his lap. He leaned his shoulder against his brothers, his body weary, his heart worried. He lifted his aching eyes to the wall across from them, looking at the protection charm dancing in the firelight. Put there by an Indian tribe, no doubt, to keep the wendigo in the cave, to try to keep their people safe.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"When we leave in the morning...can't take the cave wall with us."

Sam was silent for a moment. "Well, then, you'd better not miss."

WWW

_a/n: John's song is "End of Night" by the Doors._

TBC… the trek through the woods for the Winchester boys is not going to be an easy one…


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: In thinking about this chapter, I considered what might happen when there was fear, pain, and emotion fueling the desperation of a seemingly hopeless situation. The brothers opened up to each other a little bit in Chapter 2, and for someone like Dean, well, that can't last unless… unless the situation is taken beyond his control. Again, I hope their voices ring true for you. I simply wrote the movie in my mind._

_Also, the flashbacks in this particular chapter are pretty much from Sam's POV; the next chapter will be more Dean's POV for reasons that will become obvious… I hope._

_Kelly – thanks for your diligence._

_www_

_Tempt not a desperate man. -- _William ShakespeareRomeo and Juliet

Ramble On – Part 3

"Dean," Sam shifted his shoulder when he felt the weight of his brother's head shift to him.

"Yeah," Dean mumbled, pulling his head up and tightening his grip on the flare gun in his lap.

"Just checking."

They had been sitting in near-silence, watching the cave entrance for several hours. Sam alternated between shivering and ducking as much of his body under Dean's jacket and the duffle blanket and burning up and trying in vain to move away from the fire. The ache in his leg had increased to a teeth-clenching pain, but Dean had been rigid about the painkillers.

During the weak hours of the early morning, Dean sat between Sam and the entrance, moving only to add more wood to the fire. He'd kept his mind purposefully blank, focusing only on Sam's fever and the cave entrance. At one point he remembered that there was another entrance to the cave – the one the wolf had managed to get in through and the wendigo had rolled the boulder from, so he alternated his watch.

His body wasn't cooperating with the singular focus of his mind. His vision wavered whenever he moved his eyes, and his arm was on fire. If they'd had more antiseptic, he would have cleaned it out, but he was afraid for Sam… afraid of the infection he knew was setting in his brother's leg. And they were so far from help…

"Gotta check your leg," Dean muttered. He used his right arm and pushed himself away from the wall and Sam, noticing how cold he immediately got when away from Sam's fevered body. He felt himself shivering, not really aware if it was from the early morning air or from the pain in his arm. He didn't want to focus on either too long. He needed to check on Sam.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was low, tired.

"Sure."

Sam swallowed and looked at Dean. His brother should have left when he had the chance. When he didn't look so pale… when his hands didn't shake so much.

"Why didn't you leave me, Dean," he said quietly.

Dean had worked his way down to Sam's feet. He lifted his eyes at Sam's question.

"What?"

"Why didn't you just go?" Sam said, watching the firelight dance across Dean's features casting shadows that altered perception. When Dean blinked, the shadow from his lashes gave Sam the illusion that his brother's eyes were black, opaque… deflecting emotion rather than reflecting it.

"Don't be an idiot, Sam. I wouldn't leave you," he looked down and around himself for the flashlight, flicking it on and lifting the duffel blanket to look at Sam's leg. The tear in the skin below his knee had stopped bleeding long ago, and though the leg was swollen and bruised, pressing against the sticks that splinted the bone in place, Dean could detect no other signs of infection. He let out air he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Yeah, but why?"

Dean draped the duffel blanket back around Sam's leg and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sam was relentless with questions when he was healthy. Sam sick and questioning him was sometimes more than Dean's nerves could stand. _Humor him, he's not himself, he needs reassurance… resist the urge to tape his mouth shut…_

"Right now, Sam, I'm asking myself that same question."

Sam swallowed again. He was so thirsty, but he didn't want to ask Dean for water. He knew they only had one bottle of water and no idea how long they'd need it. He ignored his brother's snark and looked over at the fire.

"You could be out, safe. You could have someone take care of you. Make you better."

"Better?"

"Fix you."

"I'm not broken, Sam," Dean said.

"Yes you are, man," Sam said softly, staring hard into the fire. "You just won't admit it. You will run yourself into the ground before you admit it. You just…"

Dean listened as Sam's words tapered off, looking harder at his brother's profile. Sam's face was pale in the firelight and there was a fine sheen of sweat on it. He was blinking slowly, his eyes on the fire. Every so often, Dean saw him shiver. _Dammit… I have got to get him out of here._

"You with me, Sammy?"

"It's Sam."

"Not to me it isn't."

Sam rolled his head slowly back and turned his eyes to Dean. His head dipped briefly, then he jerked it back up quickly, opening his eyes wide.

"Easy, kiddo," Dean said, his worry spiking as Sam's eyes blinked slower.

"Damn," Sam rubbed a shaking hand over his face. "This sucks."

Dean crawled back up to his place beside Sam. "Why don't you go to sleep, Sammy? It won't be light for another hour or so."

Sam shook his head. "Can't."

"Sure you can. You're practically asleep right now."

"You can't sleep," Sam sighed rolling his neck.

Dean lifted a confused eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Your head, man. You can't go to sleep."

Dean looked back to the entrance, finally understanding his little brother's logic. If Sam fell asleep, who would keep Dean awake? He cursed his own weakness. Sam shouldn't have to worry about that – he needed to rest.

"I got it under control, Sam."

Sam blinked, Dean's words spiking a memory through his fevered brain.

"What did you just say?"

"I said I got it under control, you don't have to worry about me."

www

Dubuque, IA 1995

_He didn't get it. He didn't understand what could have been so fucking terrible about this job that Dad had let what was normally an after-hunt drink to calm his nerves, to help him sleep, turn into the binge to end all binges._

_He'd been gone for two days, one of them planned, and had called Dean to come get him. Sam could tell from the look on his brother's face that Dad was in bad shape. Dean had called a cab to take him to the location his Dad had given him, telling Sam to lock the door as he grabbed his jacket from the hook._

"_I know, man, I'm not an idiot," Sam had grumbled, following Dean to the door._

_Dean had turned around to face him. Nearly thirteen, Sam was almost as tall as his brother and could look him in the eye. What he saw there now was worry, and he could see that Dean was struggling with what concerned him the most – leaving Sam alone or what had happened to their Dad._

"_Sam," Dean's voiced was laced with controlled anger that Sam realized covered a layer of fear._

"_Okay, okay," Sam said, not willing to apologize for being difficult, but also not willing to push his brother further._

_Dean had been gone for almost an hour when Sam heard voices outside the door. Without waiting for the password – which his brother would ream him for later, he knew – he went to the door and opened it. Dean stood there, John's arm over his shoulder, his arm around John's waist. John's weight was bowing Dean, but his brother straightened when the door opened and moved them both inside._

_Sam had expected blood. Wounds. Something. He'd even gotten the first aid kit out in anticipation. But Dad wasn't hurt, Dad wasn't bleeding. Dad was fall-down-drunk. The smell of whiskey rolled off of him in waves as Dean moved past Sam and eased him down on the couch. He straightened slowly, rubbing a hand lightly over a bruised area on his back – at sixteen his body already bore scars he'd carry for life. _

"_Sam," Dean said quietly. "Go make us some coffee, okay?"_

"_Dun need coffee," John slurred. "I got it… I got it unner control."_

"_Dad," Dean started, but John waved a loose hand at him. _

"_I said got it! Lemme lone, Dude," he started to struggle out of his jacket, seemingly intent on lying down on the couch. He ended up half slumped on the couch, one arm trapped behind him. _

_Dean sighed and stepped forward to help. John saw him coming._

"_Said lemme lone," John growled._

_Dean ignored him. The second he touched John, though, John's free arm shot up, catching Dean on the chin, closing his mouth with an audible click. Dean stumbled backwards in surprise, his hand going up to his mouth. Sam took a deliberate step forward. He'd had enough. His Dad expected perfection out of them and then does _this_? No way._

"_Dad," Dean said again, in the same even, soft tone he'd used before. Sam's angry eyes shot over to him. His green eyes were pinned to his father sitting awkwardly on the couch. "Let me just… just get that for you," Dean was saying as he eased John's arm free of the jacket. _

_John seemed to give in, and Dean put the jacket over him like a blanket, easing his father's feet up on the couch and starting to take his boots off. Sam fumed. How could Dean just…accept this?! He clenched his jaw, glaring at his brother, angry at him for being weak in this moment, for not calling their Dad to the carpet as he _knew_ John would have done to either of them._

_Sam turned from his family and walked back toward the small room he shared with Dean. As he exited, though, he heard his brother's low murmur._

"_It wasn't her, Dad."_

"_So close… she was so close..."_

"It_ wasn't her. You did good, okay?"_

"_Shoulda seen 'er, Dude. She was beautiful."_

"_Mom was," Dean answered, and Sam heard a change in his brother's voice. A hardening. "This thing was not her, Dad."_

"_So close, Dean."_

"_Close is crap, Dad. You did what you had to do."_

_Sam stood still, holding his breath, waiting._

"_Go to sleep, Dad."_

"_Gotta take care of the…" John's voice faded._

_Sam heard Dean sigh, and could tell his brother had stood up from his crouched position on the floor. He quickly ducked into the bedroom to avoid being caught eavesdropping. He listened for Dean's movement through the small apartment, but heard nothing but the methodical ticking of the clock in the kitchenette. Then…_

"_You're gonna hate yourself in the morning for doing this… but we'll never hate you. Sammy and me. That's a promise."_

www

"You say that like he hit me on purpose," Dean said, his face turned from Sam, watching as the grey light of dawn stole slowly through the canopy of trees outside the cave entrance. The increasing light outside made the cave seem even darker, colder, more menacing – despite the fire he had worked all night to keep lit.

"Well, he did," Sam started to feel more alert. The angry fire that always seemed to burn hot in his heart when he thought of his father was sparking to life again.

"Dude, he was drunk," Dean said over his shoulder. "You've been there, you know what it's like…"

"I wouldn't hit you, drunk or not," Sam declared. _You're always right there with the excuses, aren't you, Dean? Always willing to defend him… wonder if he'd ever do the same for you…_

"Oh, really," Dean answered. "I have a couple rock-salt scars on my chest that say differently."

Sam froze. He literally stopped breathing. Dean hadn't moved away from him – hadn't moved at all. His back was still resting against Sam's shoulder as he faced the cave entrance, but Sam suddenly felt like Dean was a million miles from him. He had _felt_ the wall come down – the wall that was so much a part of Dean that Sam sometimes forgot there was much more to his brother than what he allowed people to see. The wall that had become almost transparent in the night, was solid once more. And Sam was on the wrong side. Again.

"That was different," Sam tried.

"How so?" Dean's voice was hard, clipped.

"I was… Ellicot had…"

"What are you trying to say, Sam? That you were under the influence of something… you weren't yourself…"

Sam didn't say anything. He could feel Dean's anger. He felt it penetrate his fever and seep into his heart, planting seeds of shame. And that made Sam angry. He didn't _want_ to be ashamed of himself for his anger at his father. He wanted to be justified in it. And he wanted Dean to concede that Sam had a point. That for years John had been thoughtless in his words and actions toward them. That if it weren't for Dean, Sam wouldn't have had a father.

"Dad has risked his life for us, Sam."

"After he put us in danger in the first place."

At that, Dean turned around, breaking the slim physical connection that had given Sam a small amount of reassurance.

"Dammit, Sam, stop it. You will look for _any_ excuse to tear him down." Dean's eyes were hot and his hands were fisted in his lap, as if he were physically keeping himself from grabbing Sam and shaking some sense into him.

"I don't _need_ an excuse, man, his _reasons,_ as you call them, are enough."

Dean started shaking. At first it was only obvious in his hands as he lifted one up to rub over his tired face, but when he dropped that hand Sam saw the tremor run through his brother's entire body. As the light gradually increased outside, it threw their cocoon of safety further into darkness and drew shadows on Dean's face that worried Sam. Dean was lit from behind, but his face was dark, and Sam couldn't see his eyes. Something about that fact caused his heart to tremble.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice cementing the tremor Sam had seen in his hands. In that one word his brother poured enough anger and pain that Sam wanted to take back everything he'd said in the last ten minutes. But, he remained silent. He was angry with John, and by default angry with Dean for always being the one to stand between them.

When Sam didn't answer him, Dean pushed himself to his knees. He was so tired of this same damn fight with Sam. He'd been trying to keep the two of them from tearing each other apart for ten years. He used the cave wall for support and pushed himself the rest of the way to his feet, ignoring Sam's eyes, ignoring the concern he saw there. Screw his concern. Sam couldn't see that he_ was _his father – just twenty years younger. And Dean had no idea how to open his eyes.

"Sam," he tried again, his voice calmer. Unconsciously, he'd adopted the Keep the Peace tone he'd used so often in their youth when trying to calm his brother down, get him to go along with what John had decreed _would_ be happening. "You gotta try to give Dad a break once in awhile, man. He's doing the best he can."

Sam shifted his head up so that he could see Dean's face. "The best he can? Are you kidding me with this?"

Dean had lifted his right arm and was resting the forearm against the wall, his forehead resting on his arm. His left arm hung loosely, and he held it at an odd angle to his body. Sam remembered feeling the sticky sensation of blood on that arm hours earlier and cursed himself for not checking it out.

"The _best he can_ would have been showing up in Lawrence. The _best he can_ would have been helping you after the rawhead and not leaving it to Joshua to give me the link to LeGrange."

"Maybe he gave the info to Joshua," Dean said in a low voice, muffled by the proximity to the cave wall. His shaking had increased and he couldn't ignore the pain in his head as he clenched his jaw against Sam's seemingly relentless rant against John.

"And maybe he just didn't give a damn, Dean! Maybe he –"

"Shut up, Sam," it was a low plea.

"—was so focused on getting that demon he didn't even notice. I mean, the only reason he showed up in Chicago –"

"Shut up, Sam," it was stronger this time, louder as Dean pulled his head away from the wall.

"—was because you told him we had a lead on the demon. If it hadn't been for that we still might not know –"

"I said SHUT UP!" He turned suddenly, viciously away from the wall and faced his brother with fury in his eyes. Forgetting for a moment that his head was bleeding, that his arm was on fire, that Sam was only sitting because he couldn't stand, Dean's body tensed and he took an automatic step forward, bringing his right fist up to mid-level.

"Don't you think I fucking know that?! I think about that every goddamn day, but it doesn't MATTER."

Sam's breath stilled in his throat. He pushed himself back a little from the rage and pain that rolled off of his brother in physical waves. He couldn't hold it. He'd opened a box he hadn't meant to and was ill-equipped to deal with.

Dean stopped, looking at Sam's large, dark eyes. He took a breath and dropped his hands, forcing himself to relax his fingers. His head swam and he closed his eyes against the visual of Sam pulling away from him in fear.

"It doesn't matter," Dean repeated calmer this time, turning from Sam as his voice shook. He stepped over to the pentagram on the wall, reaching out with trembling fingers to touch the fading shimmers from the crystals. "It doesn't matter because… because it's all I know. He raised us, okay? He taught us everything..."

"No, man," Sam said, his voice hard enough to draw his brother's gaze. "_You_ raised me."

Dean turned away from him, facing the wall, tracing the Indian symbols with a finger. He lifted a hand to his head, the pain in the gash had started to make it hard to think. Or maybe it was the conversation… this never ending quest to convince his brother that their Dad was worthy of their devotion… Dean knew that John had changed over the last twenty-two years… he wanted to believe that his father was proud of them, that he would sacrifice for them… but sometimes…

"Do you know what he was hunting that night, Sam?"

Sam shivered at the emptiness he heard in his brother's voice. He pulled Dean's jacket closer to him, burying his arms underneath. As he pushed the collar of the jacket up to his nose he realized it smelled like his brother. And it was that smell, that combination of leather and gunpowder, that he associated with safety.

"The spirit of… a woman?"

Dean's back was to him, but Sam saw his profile as he turned his face to the right. "It was a mother who had died in her baby's nursery."

Sam went cold. "What?"

"She was killed, by a fire, in her baby's nursery, and her spirit didn't leave. The family relocated, but the owners of the house had been reporting all this strange stuff to the authorities. Dad got wind of it. Had to… well, you know what he had to do."

"Do you think… was it… _the_ Demon?"

Dean's shoulders dropped a bit at the curious fascination in Sam's voice. He sounded excited at the possibility that John had been that close to getting the demon. Just like he'd sounded in Chicago when he'd declared he'd sleep for a month then go back to school. Leave this life. Leave _him_.

"Who the hell knows, but Dad thought so."

Dean turned around, holding his left arm against his body with his right hand. Sam noticed, but didn't say anything. He didn't think Dean was aware of the action. Dean leaned back against the cave wall, his body at a 45 degree angle, his eyes directed to the floor but Sam could see that they were years away.

"Can you see why that hunt might have been hard for him?"

"I-I heard him say…" Sam started, searching his memory once more for the words his father had muttered to Dean that night.

"_She was so close_."

Sam looked up. "Yeah… did he mean… Mom?"

Dean furrowed his brows, "Sam, you just gotta look with better eyes, man. You are the smartest person I know. But sometimes… sometimes you just don't see what's right in front of you," Dean's voice was low, his eyes down, and Sam could see the tremor shiver through his brother's body.

Sam sighed, not missing the fact that Dean hadn't answered him. "Man, I just…" he didn't know how to continue. He didn't know how to tell Dean that all he wanted was for his brother to realize that he deserved more than a life of blind obedience, a life of a protector. He deserved a _life._ And Sam didn't see John giving him permission to have that anytime soon.

"There's just a lot of… a lot of shit here, Dean."

Dean sighed and slid slowly down the wall, sitting opposite his brother, but with his eyes cast out to the entrance of the cave and the swiftly coming dawn.

"Sometimes I wonder if," Sam swallowed, looking back at the dying fire. "I wonder, when we do see Dad again, if I won't be able to let him go… or if… if I will just want him to leave. Just let us be, let us go our own way… I mean, it's not like," he swallowed again, searching for the words, "it's not like when he was with us that night he was really there, y'know? He hasn't been with us for a long time, man."

Dean just looked at him. Sam waited. Waited for Dean to argue. Waited for him to accuse Sam of being the one who left… waited for Dean to rile at the accusation that John was anything less than the father he was supposed to be. But Dean just looked at him. Then, without a word he rolled slowly to his knees, crawled to the duffel and dug out the water bottle.

"Here," he said, tossing it at Sam.

"Thanks," Sam said sincerely and took a long swig, capped it, then handed it back to Dean. Dean put it back in the pack.

"Aren't you going to have some?"

"Not thirsty," Dean shook his head.

"Dean," Sam started, knowing his brother had to be thirsty, knowing his brother was hurting. He could tell by the way he held his arm, the set of his jaw, the shadow in his eyes. But instead of saying anything to Sam, Dean reached into the duffel and pulled out his bowie knife.

"I'll be right back," he said, grabbing the flare gun as he stood up.

"Where are you going?" Sam couldn't keep the sudden panic from his voice.

"I have an idea on how we can get you out of here," Dean said, pausing just inside the mouth of the cave. Sam could see by his silhouette that he'd turned to look back at him, but again the shadows hid his face.

"Dean!"

"I'll be okay, Sammy."

"Yeah, but…"

Dean turned to face him. "But what?"

Sam just looked at him, unsure of what he wanted to say. Dean wasn't quite steady on his feet when he was still. He swayed slightly from side to side as though he were rocking a baby. His right hand gripped the flare-gun, his left hand hung loose at his side, and now Sam thought he saw blood slowly dripping from his fingertips.

"What about the wendigo?"

Dean held up the flare-gun, "That's what this is for," he said, then ducked out of the mouth of the cave, leaving Sam alone in the increasing darkness.

Sam wanted to move, to pull himself to the mouth of the cave to see if he could see what Dean was doing. To see if he could see Dean. Just having his brother in his sight calmed him. It had always been so, no matter how old he was. When he was a kid and couldn't sleep, he just needed to know Dean was in the room. When he had first started to join them on hunts, John had kept the boys together. Sam felt invincible with his brother next to him.

When John decided that they would be more effective if they approached from three separate directions and split the boys up, Sam had been terrified. He knew _what_ to do – John had trained him well – but he didn't know if he _could _do it. Sam kept his eyes on the cave entrance, Dean's jacket pulled up around him to ease the shivers that periodically shook him, and unconsciously rubbed the muscles of right thigh. His lower leg had long ago passed over the line that separated aching from pain, but he knew Dean was giving him all the painkillers his system could handle – especially on a diet of peanut M&Ms and water.

Sam kept his eyes on the cave entrance, watching for Dean to come back to him. He could vividly recall his first hunt without Dean at his side, closer than his shadow. It had almost been his last.

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Cripple Creek, CO 1997

_He turned up his walkman, drowning out the repetitive droning of the same Led Zepplin cassette that his Dad and brother had listened to the entire drive to Colorado. He wanted to get lost in the lyrics he was listening to, to ignore why they were there, to just look out the back window of the Impala at the bright white light of the moon as it turned the midnight world into a fantasy land of possibilities._

"_I know you're half awake, and no hate and I know how to do it, hold the door and let it out, don't get it right or wrong, no I don't get it…"_

_He caught his father's eyes in the rearview mirror and realized belatedly that he'd been talking. He pulled the earphones down and could still hear the soul-thrumming beat of Chris Cornell's vocals around his neck._

"…_you got that, Sammy?"_

"_Sorry, what?"_

_John's eyes flicked back to the road, then back up to the mirror to meet his son's dark eyes. "You have to pay attention, Son. Especially now. This isn't a game."_

"_I know," Sam replied, his eyes flicking to Dean's profile in the front passenger seat. Dean was looking forward, but Sam could see the muscle in his jaw jump. His brother had already vocalized his dislike of this plan, of separating them. But John's firm voice had silenced further protests from his brother with the claim that Sam had to learn sometime. _

"_Repeat back to me the exit plan," John ordered._

_Sam did, and then waited for his father's approval, the song continuing to chew through his anxiety with irony._

"_I'm giving blood tonight, I don't care how, don't care why, I'm giving blood tonight, I'm feeling just like I could give it all…"_

"_You understand, Dean?"_

_Dean nodded once. "Yessir."_

_John looked up to the mirror and repeated what he said, much to Sam's relief. He flicked off the walkman so that he wasn't tempted to miss anything else. "You get back to the car when your part is done, you _do not_ wait for me."_

"_Yessir," Sam said, his voice a pale echo of his brothers._

_The hunt for the werewolf was quick. They had known where its lair was located before they set out. John took point through the dense area of trees and the boys flanked him on either side. Sam was sweating, his pistol loaded with special-made silver bullets held loose and confident in his hand, his crouched approach mirroring his brother's down to their footsteps._

_He kept his eyes on his Dad, watching until he saw John stop outside of the cave entrance. He was far enough away from them now that Sam had to narrow his eyes in the bright moonlight to see him. Sam held his breath and pulled his eyes from John to look for Dean. He couldn't see him at first and his heart suddenly hammered against his ribs in instant fear. He had to at least _see_ him. He could do this if he could see Dean. Then he saw the moonlight hit the silver of his brother's gun and the pale grip of his hands as he lifted them to point directly at the cave entrance. The rest of his body was hidden by a large tree._

_Sam drew in a heavy, shaking breath and mimicked Dean's stance, turning his eyes back to his Dad. He wanted desperately to be here and he wanted desperately to leave. All he knew was that he couldn't let them down. He couldn't let Dean down. He'd seen the stark fear flash through his brother's eyes when John had declared that Sam would be on his own for this hunt. He wanted Dean to know he'd be okay, he could be trusted._

_John lit the torch he'd soaked in gasoline at the car and with a practiced grace tossed it into the mouth of the cave. The werewolf exited with a vicious snarl within seconds. It passed John and headed for the woods. John whistled once and at the signal Sam moved in the direction of the cave, knowing Dean was moving in the opposite direction with the intent to trap the wolf in a cross-fire._

_The creature had other ideas. At John's whistle, it stopped its flight and sniffed the air. Before Sam could do more than gasp, it was heading for him, its mass as big as he was, its eyes twin pools of rage, its stench overpowering. It _smelled_ evil. All of his training tangled in his head and he dropped his hands and backed up. He couldn't think of anything beyond _run_. But he knew if he did, he was dead._

"_Sam!" his brother's voice cut through the absolute stillness of the wooded mountainside. The werewolf didn't pull his gaze from Sam. It almost seemed amused by his fear. Sam watched in a detached, fascinated shock as the wolf's shoulders bounced as it prepared to leap. Something solid slammed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground, forcing the air from his lungs in a rush. He blinked in confusion, expecting the wolf and instead seeing his brother. _

_Dean jumped up as soon as he and Sam hit the ground and physically caught the werewolf in a strange sort of embrace as the creature leapt at Sam. Dean shoved his forearm up to keep the wolf's jaws from his throat. Sam lay on the ground, his ears ringing, his vision tunneled to only see his brother fight with the werewolf. _

_He could see the wolf dig its massive claws into Dean's chest and legs as it fought his brother for supremacy. He heard Dean scream in pain. He heard his own voice call for Dad. He saw himself pick up his gun and point it toward the battling pair as they fell to the ground, still struggling. He saw Dean plunge his knife into the wolf repeatedly. He heard himself call for Dad again, and then he heard the echo of his father's gun join his as they fired together into the beast the second Dean was able to get some distance._

_The werewolf jerked and screamed as the silver hit its blood stream. As it died, Sam watched with the same detached feeling of unreality as Dean weakly shoved himself away, his eyes pinned to the werewolf. When the wolf died it shifted back to its human form. That of a fourteen or fifteen year old boy with a mop of dark brown hair and an eerily innocent face. Sam stared, unable to move. Then he heard Dean's voice and his skin crawled._

"_Oh, God," Dean gasped out. "Sammy…"_

_Sam wanted to open his mouth to say he was right there, but he couldn't get any sound past his lips. Maybe he wasn't there. Maybe _that_ was him. Maybe he hadn't been here for a long time. Maybe… He blinked and shook the dizzy feeling of detachment away, looking down at Dean. John had hurried over and was crouched beside Dean._

"_It's not him, Dude, you're okay, you're okay…" Dad was saying. Dad sounded worried. That chilled Sam. He took a step forward and saw that Dean's eyes were still pinned to the body lying next to him. _

"_Sammy," he said again, his voice broken. He tried to reach a hand toward the body._

_Again Sam tried to say something but could only stare. There was so much blood. It was running from his brother and from the werewolf's human body. The pools were meeting in the middle between the two. As Sam watched, Dean's green eyes filled with tears. _

"_It's _not_ him, Dean," John's voice was hard. Sam blinked rapidly, watching John press his coat against the cuts on Dean's chest. Dean cried out when he pressed the jacket harder to staunch the flow of blood. He blinked and the tears toppled down his cheeks. That shocked Sam out of his silence. Dean just didn't cry. _

"_I'm here, Dean," he said, his voice sounding a hundred years old. He watched Dean's eyes shift from the body to his face. Sam dropped to his knees next to Dean on the forest floor, oblivious of the blood pooling there. "I'm here, man," he grabbed Dean's hand and gripped it tight until Dean gripped back._

_Dean's face was pale, his breathing shallow, but his eyes lit up at the sight of Sam. Sam trembled at that look. There was more love in that look than Sam knew what to do with. Dean had just saved him from his own stupidity, his own inattention, and had nearly died doing it, and yet the look in his eyes was such unabashed relief at seeing Sam safe that Sam felt tears well in his own eyes._

"_We'll get you out of here, boy," John said, shifting his arm under Dean's shoulders and knees and lifting him into his arms. Dean cried out once at the movement, and then was silent. Sam picked up his brother's gun, watching his father carry his brother back through the woods, back to the Impala. He followed closely, knowing that someone would have to come back and take care of the body. Knowing it would be him. It had to be him._

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"Sam?"

Sam jumped. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't heard or seen Dean come back into the cave.

"You okay, man?"

Sam nodded, blinking his eyes rapidly, shocked to discover tears. He tasted them at the corners of his lips and felt their tracks on his face. Using the cave wall for support, Dean dropped whatever he had been carrying and came over to Sam, crouching down so that he could better see his brother's face.

"Sam, talk to me," he ordered.

"I'm okay," Sam said, his voice rough from lack of sleep and too many memories. "I-I'm sorry, Dean."

"For what?" Dean put the back of his hand against Sam's hot forehead, his mouth turning down into a worried frown.

"For getting us into this mess. For giving you a hard time," Sam pressed his lips together, then angrily wiped the tears from his cheeks. "I was being an ass."

Dean sighed resting his arm on his bent knee. "Yeah you were, but it doesn't mean you were wrong."

Sam looked at him, surprised.

"It doesn't mean you were right, either," Dean quickly amended. "It just means I'm tired, you're hurt, and we have a long way to go and I don't want to get there fighting."

"Me neither."

Dean rolled his neck. "We're going to have to leave some things behind."

"Why?"

Dean slowly pushed himself to his feet and Sam watched his jaw tighten. "Because I can't carry it all, Sam," he said through clenched teeth.

"Oh," Sam replied.

"So, get the stuff out of that bag that you think we'll need and put the rest in a pile. I need the bag empty."

"What are you doing, man?"

"Making a travois."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Um, a what?"

"You know, like a sled… so I can pull you," Dean said, moving over to the other side of the cave, near the symbols on the wall. Sam saw then that he'd brought in two branches, as long as Sam was tall and about as thick around as his arm.

"Dean, man, how the hell…"

Dean shrugged, pulling his knife out. Sam looked at him more closely. His face was covered in sweat and dirt, the cut on the side of his head that had never really stopped bleeding was seeping more, and from where he was sitting, he could see almost the entire left sleeve of his shirt was darkened with blood.

"Okay, skipping past the part where you tell me how you managed to get those branches, how the hell do you think you can pull me out of here? You can barely stand up," Sam exclaimed.

Dean didn't look at him. Instead he took the duffel blanket off of Sam's legs and started cutting several slits on the edges.

"Dean!"

"What?"

"Are you going to answer me or what?"

Dean looked up, "Oh. I thought it was a rhetorical question."

Sam's eyebrows went up. He opened his mouth to continue to argue with his brother when his leg thumped once, hard, and painful. He closed his eyes quickly, gripping the top part of his thigh. He eased his breath out through clenched teeth and slowly, very slowly opened his eyes. Dean was sitting in front of him, looking like someone hit him with a two by four and then tossed him off of a cliff, handing him painkillers and the bottle of water. Sam took them gratefully, swallowing as little of the water as he could to get the pills down.

"I'm getting you out of here, Sam," Dean said returning to his task.

Sam's breath caught, so close were those words and that tone to his father's that night in Colorado. Dean leaned over to Sam's right boot, loosened when he splinted the bone, and pulled out the laces. He used the laces to lash the top of the branches together. He then took the duffel blanket and began tying the strips to either side of the branches so that the end result was an inverted V with the branches, joined by the duffel blanket. Dean took the other empty duffle and cut part of it into strips, tying the strips together and to the top of the branches, creating a harness.

"Dude," Sam said, awe in his voice.

"What?"

"When we get out of here, I'm buying every episode of MacGyver."

At that, Dean actually grinned. "Didn't learn this from Mac."

"Oh?"

"I _can_ read, you know," he said, looking at Sam out of the corners of his eyes. He looked… pleased. Pleased that Sam, the smarter one, the college boy, was impressed with something he knew that didn't involve hunting evil.

"I still want to know how you're going to try to haul my ass out of here," Sam said.

Dean shrugged, "I'm just gonna do it, Sam. There is no _try_."

"Who are you, Yoda?"

At that, Dean laughed. An actual laugh that crinkled his eyes and folded his cheeks. Sam grinned back. They shared a small look, one that said in one second of eye contact what neither knew how to say with words. Both knew that they hadn't reached a conclusion about their Dad, that he was still present, around even when he wasn't. But they had been raised to work as a unit; they knew no other way.

"Put the guns and ammo in the pockets of the jacket, but keep the flare gun out," Dean instructed.

"'Kay."

"I got one more thing I have to do," Dean went over to the fire and pulled out a stick from the non-burned end. The opposite end was glowing red. He waved it in the air a few times, cooling it. Sam watched, fascinated. At this point, he wouldn't put anything past his brother.

Dean went over to the travois and on the canvas began to draw. For a moment Sam was puzzled, then he realized that Dean was copying the markings and the arrangement of them from the cave wall. He blinked, his eyes shifting to Dean's profile, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I never really knew," Sam whispered.

"Whassat?" Dean asked, distracted.

"Nothing," Sam spoke up. _I never really knew how complex you are, Dean. I don't think anyone does… _

When he'd completed the drawings, he stood slowly, leaning one hand on the cave wall to get his balance and then bent and picked up a handful of smaller rocks. To Sam's complete amazement, he started chucking them at the ceiling.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" He watched as Dean winced after one particularly hard throw and pressed a hand to his head.

"Well," Dean gasped, releasing his head and throwing another rock. "I figure there's a reason the pentagram was connected with light from the crystals…" heave, miss… "I figure it has something to do with using the elements…" heave, miss… "and the crystals are formed by minerals, right…" heave, miss… "so I thought I'd just, y'know, to be safe, use that to draw in the pentagram on the…" heave, hit… "canvas."

He bent over and picked up one of the crystal pieces. Sam watched him in silent amazement. Dean pulled the bottle of holy water from the discard pile Sam had created and dipped the crystal into it. He lifted his eyes to Sam's and Sam was surprised to detect a flash of humor there.

"Better safe than sorry, right?"

"Right," Sam nodded.

Dean drew the pentagram by connecting the symbols. The water dried up almost immediately, but they both knew it was the ritual that would protect them… if it worked.

"You ready to get out of here, Sammy?"

Sam swallowed and looked at his brother. For a moment he couldn't breath. Twenty-three years of sacrifice, of protection, of care, of anger, of laughter, of lessons, of pain, of love flashed through his minds eye. Not once in all of those memories could he find a time when Dean had complained, had even hinted that he regretted it. Not once had Dean given up on him. He didn't believe he was worth the time it would take to clean the cuts on his arm, but he was ready to pull Sam out of the woods on a pentagram-protected make-shift travois.

Dean waved a hand in front of Sam's face. "Hello, Sam. Earth to Sam… Sam wears women's underwear."

Sam blinked. "You okay, Dean?"

"What? Dude, you're the one that was zoning."

"Your, uh, your arm…"

Dean shrugged, not even looking at it. "Looks worse than it is, Sammy. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Sam mentally berated himself. Why couldn't he just _say _it? Three words. Not that hard…

Dean took the jacket from Sam and laid it aside, then bent over, grabbing Sam's arm to help him up. Sam resisted for a moment, looking at him.

"Geeze, Sammy, you're looking at me like I'm gonna vanish or something," Dean said in a low voice, his brows pulled together in worry.

"I –" Sam started. He swallowed. "Thanks, man."

"Don't thank me yet," Dean grinned. "This could be the worst idea I've ever had…"

Sam gave in to his brother's grin. "I don't know," he said, gripping Dean's outstretched arm and bracing himself for movement. "You've had some pretty wacked out ideas over the years."

"On three, right?"

"Yep."

"One, two, three…" Dean heaved up and Sam used his left leg to push himself up.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, his world tilting as the pain slammed into him. Dean's smaller, but muscular body balanced him, kept him from falling. His voice was a steady cadence of _easy, that's it, easy, Sammy, I got you…_

They moved as one and Dean slowly eased Sam down onto the canvas of the travois. When he was down, Dean fell, trembling, to his knees and both brothers fought to catch their breath. Sam lifted his eyes to his brother's face and their eyes met for a moment. Sam knew then that Dean would get them out. He knew it in his heart. The look in his brother's eyes was the same determination he saw when they were on a hunt and someone needed saving. That's how Dean saw this, Sam knew. He needed saving. But he couldn't help but wonder who was going to save Dean.

Dean pushed himself to his feet. He adjusted the canvas sling that Sam sat in to make sure that Sam's leg wouldn't fall out and hit the ground. The ride was going to be bumpy enough for him as it was. He checked to make sure that they had all of their weapons, that his knife was secure, and that Sam had the flare-gun at the ready. He moved to the front of the travois, bent carefully and slid the harness over his shoulders. He hissed as the canvas brushed against his left arm, but kept silent.

"You sure you can do this, man?"

Dean didn't answer. Instead he stood, the harness lifting the top part of the travois from the ground. Bracing himself, he took one step forward and the contraption with its precious cargo followed easily behind. He heard Sam gasp as the branches bounced on the uneven cave floor, jostling his leg.

"Sam," Dean said through clenched teeth. "You gotta promise me something."

They were reaching the mouth of the cave.

"What?" Sam's voice was low, and Dean could hear him breathing slowly to control the pain in his leg.

"No matter what happens, you stay on that canvas."

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"Just promise me," Dean said, his voice hard. "No matter what – even if…" he took a breath, pausing at the mouth of the cave. "Even if something happens… to, uh, me."

He felt Sam shift on the canvas and the harness pulled against his shoulders. He bit his lip to keep his cry of pain silent. He pressed forward, breaching the mouth of the cave.

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" Sam's voice was like glass and the fear Dean heard there cut to his heart. He continued forward until Sam was completely out of the cave and heard his brother gasp.

What he hadn't told Sam – and why he made sure to draw the protection charm on the travois – was that the wendigo had been busy in the night when it was denied entrance. Over the mouth of the cave, the skinned body of the wolf that had managed to get in the cave lay exposed, its entrails stretched across the stone. As Dean continued to move forward into the woods he felt rather than heard Sam's shock at the carnage they walked through. Swaths of blood marked each tree they slowly trudged past and after about five minutes of walking, Sam saw the black skin of the wolf staked to a large tree with claw marks scoring the oak above it.

"Promise me, Sam," Dean said again, his voice low. "You stay on that canvas. You stay there."

Sam swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the pitiful sight of the wolf skin. "Dean, I can't…"

"Sam, please," Dean's voice was thin, strained with effort and pain.

Sam dropped his head back against the crossed branches. "The charm doesn't protect you, does it?

"Don't think it works that way, man," Dean whispered.

"Don't do this to me…"

Dean didn't stop moving. The harness pulled against his tired shoulders and he had to blink rapidly to clear his wavering vision. He couldn't stop moving – he didn't know if he could start again, and he didn't know how close the wendigo was.

"I won't leave you, Sam," he said, "if I can help it. But you promise me you'll stay there."

"Dean…"

"Dammit, Sam," Dean stumbled.

Sam felt the travois jerk, he heard Dean's intake of breath. Sam closed his eyes, hating himself.

"I promise," he whispered.

Dean stumbled again, but found his footing. "Thanks," he said. "Now keep that gun ready… you're all we got going for us, Dude."

"Swell," Sam whispered, gripping the flare gun in one hand and his leg in the other as the travois bounced over the rough terrain.

Dean moved like a machine. They walked in silence for over an hour. Sam didn't know where he pulled the energy from – he hadn't slept, he had a concussion, and Sam knew his arm was in bad shape. But he barely paused in his forward movement, until…

"What the hell was that," Sam exclaimed as the travois jerked to a halt, bouncing his injured leg and eliciting a startled gasp from Dean. It sounded like a cry – a child's cry – sweeping from one side of the wooded area they trudged through to the other.

Dean pulled against the harness, trying to vary their path. It was tracking them, he knew. It was toying with them.

"Ignore it, Sam," he panted.

The cry came again, this time louder and with it the blurred movement of a shadow around them. Dean stumbled again, this time going to his knees. A brief cry of pain escaped him.

"Dean!"

"M'okay," he panted.

"Dammit, no you're not," Sam started to shift on the travois, clenching his teeth against the pain radiating through his leg.

"Sam, you STAY PUT!"

"Dean –"

"You promised," Dean whispered on his hands and knees, his head hanging low between his hands.

They heard the cry again, and this time, when Dean lifted his head he saw the eerie glimpse of the wendigo's wasted body dart through the trees.

"Fucking son of a bitch," Dean growled. He raised himself up and started to struggle out of his harness.

"What are you doing?"

Dean didn't answer.

"Dean, let's just go, okay?"

The travois listed and then dropped as Dean stepped out of the harness.

"Give me the gun, Sam."

Sam used his elbows and pushed himself up to a seated position. "Dean, we can –"

"Give. Me. The. Gun."

Sam licked his lips and handed it over. Dean's hand trembled as he took the gun from his brother. Sam looked around the opposite direction from Dean. He'd stopped near a tree, the travois resting just beneath it. Sam shifted, thinking if he could maybe get his left leg under him, he could be in a better position to –

"Sam, don't you move. You stay there."

Dean's voice had dropped. The worry was still present, but there was a dark current of danger running under his words. Sam turned to look and saw the morning light filter through the trees to land directly on his brother. The sun hit his dark-blonde hair and picked up flecks of gold, giving him an almost-halo effect. His hands were out at his sides, blood dripping from his left, the flare-gun in his right. His legs were braced slightly apart, and Sam could tell from the energy shimmering from him that he was ready for a fight.

Sam followed his eyeline and saw it. Standing about twenty feet away, almost camouflaged by the trees, stood the wendigo. It was eyeing them. It acted almost human – predatory, but calculating. Sam reached into the pocket of Dean's jacket and drew out one of the pistols. It wouldn't kill it, but it would be something to slow it down, something to give Dean a chance.

The wendigo shifted. Sam bit his lip, his breath stilling in his throat.

"Bring it on, you sonuvabitch," Dean growled.

At that, the wendigo sprang forward.

WWW

_a/n: Sam's song is "Bleed Together" by Soundgarden. _

TBC_… A note in the upcoming Chapter 4 will help explain how and why this particular wendigo is different from the creature they killed in Chapter 1…_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: In North American Indian beliefs, the wendigo is a dangerous, cannibalistic being. The Ojibwa claim the wendigo sickness is the worst type of psychic sickness that can befall a shaman, and can be brought on by egotistical abuse of shamanic powers… (The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, by Rosemary Ellen Guiley)._

_This chapter and ones coming up will have words from the Ojibwa Indian language, translated either in the text or at the end. Enjoy!_

_Kelly – Thanks for having my back._

_www_

_No poor bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making other bastards die for their country. -- George S. Patton_

Ramble On – Part 4

It moved too fast for Dean to register more that a flash of pale color and a gush of fetid odor. He tensed, but even at peak performance, he was no match for a wendigo -- not one that was apparently intent on making them suffer before killing and eating them. It moved directly past him, spinning him with its motion and as he turned, Dean felt a brand-like heat cross his back just above the knife he'd tucked into his waistband.

It was heading for Sam. Directly for Sam. As Dean fell to the ground, unable to keep his balance, he saw the pale blur approach the travois as if in slow motion, saw Sam pull his arms up instinctively to cover his head, and then, amazingly, saw the blur deflect off to the right as if it had encountered an invisible wall.

Dean lay on the ground on his right side, the flare gun in his right hand, pointed toward the direction he'd seen the blur go. He blinked wide, shocked eyes at Sam, who was slowly lowering his arms, his dark eyes just as surprised. Then, Dean grinned. Sam blinked at him in astonishment.

"Yeah!" Dean bellowed from the ground. "How do you like THAT?!"

Sam stared at his brother. "What the hell?"

Dean grinned, still on the ground, laying on his right side. He didn't look like he had any intention of moving. "Couldn't get you, Sammy. You see that?" He tilted his head back and yelled to the canopy of trees, "Couldn't get him you sonuvabitch!"

Sam blinked wildly at Dean. Something was wrong. Why wasn't Dean getting up? Why didn't he bounce right back up, ready to grab the wendigo, ready to wrestle it to the ground… Sam shook his head. He rubbed a shaking hand over his face. _Get a grip, Sam_.

Something was wrong… "Dean?" he called. "Dean, uh…"

"Gimme a minute, Sam," Dean panted from over to his right. He had rolled so that he could leverage his upper body up with his right elbow, but as soon as he did so, he knew that he was in trouble. The fire-brand he felt across his back shot a trembling ice-cold heat through his body. He couldn't seem to get his arms to obey him. He pulled his bottom lip in, lifting his eyes to look for the wendigo.

It wouldn't be deterred that easily, he knew. When denied entrance to the cave it had eviscerated a wolf. Dean knew he had to be ready for its next attack. He had to make sure it didn't get Sam.

"Dean," Sam said again, his voice trembling.

"Stay there, Sam," Dean panted, his eyes still scanning the trees, shaking a bit on his elbow, trying to get his feet under him, needing to stand. "It's not gone."

"I know."

The tone in Sam's voice chilled Dean. He blinked and slowly turned his head toward his brother. Sam sat very still, both hands gripping his right leg just above the knee. His head was directed toward his feet, but his eyes slid sideways to see his brother. On the other side of him, away from Dean and just a few feet from the travois, stood the wendigo.

Dean swallowed. "Shit," he whispered.

He saw Sam's eyes on him. He met them and shook his head once. Keeping his eyes on the wendigo and clenching his jaw shut, he ignored the knife-slice of pain that shot from his shoulders to his lower back, and pulled his legs up and pushed himself to his knees. He had to take a breath. And then, unbelievably, the wendigo smiled. A cold, dead smile, eerie in its humanlike appearance, evil in its emptiness.

Dean blinked, pulling his head back in an automatic reaction of shocked repulsion. He could see that this creature didn't look as… _far gone_ as the one in the cave. It was bone-thin, its skin an almost blue-white transparent parchment stretched over unnaturally long bone structure, its fingers lengthened by the claw-like nails clicking as it subtly rotated its hands. Dean could feel his heartbeat in his back and knew that the fire-hot pain there was due to those claws. He didn't want to know how bad it was. It wouldn't matter anyway. He had a job to do.

The smile worried him. The face seemed to hold some human qualities – a bit of a nose, thin lips, and opaque eyes that still flashed something akin to thought. Something like emotion. Dean swallowed. He knew what the wendigo had once been. He _knew_ it had once been human. But he'd only ever encountered the creatures that had long ago left their humanity behind. Seeing one that still knew how to do more than simply hunt them… one that knew how to _get_ to them…

Carefully, slowly, Dean eased himself to his feet, setting his legs slightly apart hoping it would help to balance him. For a moment when he stood, there were two wendigos, two Sams, two travois. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to grab onto something, realizing belatedly that he was standing on open ground. He wavered dangerously for a moment.

"Dean," Sam's voice was a tense, whispered plea.

"M'okay," Dean whispered back, steadying himself. "I got it."

"_Seyenz_," the word seemed to come from the trees themselves.

The brothers exchanged a startled look. Sam's eyebrows went up and he mouthed _what the fuck?_ Dean shrugged in return. He looked back at the wendigo. The smile hadn't wavered. Its teeth were bared, the sides of its mouth pulled back like a puppet master had pulled the right string. Dean shivered.

He raised the flare-gun with his right hand, expecting the wendigo to blur away at any moment. He was acutely aware that his little brother, wounded, sick, and nearly helpless, was sitting between him and the bad guy. His hand trembled, the tortured muscles in his back protesting with a vengeance. He lifted his left hand to steady the gun, amazed that the creature hadn't moved. He started to wonder if it knew something he didn't. He was slightly surprised to see the amount of blood on the back of his left hand. He steadied his grip on the gun, and leveled it on the wendigo. The smile was starting to creep him out.

_Breathe, Dean,_ he heard his father's voice in his head, as clear as if John had been standing next to him, just out of eyeline, whispering instructions. _It's just you and it… one of you has to walk away…_

"Sam," he said in a low command, pulling John's voice from his ears through his voice, knowing his brother would hear, knowing his brother would obey. "Get down."

He never took his eyes from the wendigo, but he could see his brother's movement. As soon as Sam dropped, Dean pulled the trigger and the flare shot out in a true arch aiming directly at the wendigo... and hitting nothing. It continued until it buried itself into the soft ground about ten feet beyond Sam.

"Dammit!" Dean growled, dropping the gunsight, but not relaxing his grip. He hadn't even seen the creature move.

He smelled it before he saw it. He started to turn toward the smell, feeling like he was moving underwater, and felt something hard clip him across the chin, knocking him viciously to the ground.

"Dean!"

Dean pressed his right hand against his chest, dragging in gulps of breath. _I'm okay, Sammy… I'm okay…_

"Dean!"

He realized he hadn't spoken out loud. Sam's voice was frantic.

"Get the other flare," he said, surprised at how weak he sounded to his own ears. He lifted his head, looking at Sam. The flare that he'd fired was still burning and had ignited the dried leaves on the forest floor around it. "Well, shit," he mumbled, rolling to his stomach and pushing himself to his knees.

Their heads jerked upwards simultaneously at the sound of the child's cry. Dean pushed himself to his feet, keeping his eyes up, opening the flare gun.

"It's in the goddamn trees," he muttered. Searching the tree canopy with uncooperative vision, he moved slowly over to Sam, and held out his hand without looking at his brother. He felt Sam drop the flare canister in his hand. He shoved it into the gun and flipped it closed, his lips pursed with the concentrated effort it took to do such a simple task.

"Last one, man," Sam whispered.

"Yeah," Dean answered. He heard the fire from the wayward flare crackle. He glanced once more at the tree canopy. Moving carefully over to Sam, he looked down at him briefly. Sam's face was pale and sweaty. He gripped his leg, and held his lower lip in his teeth like he was keeping a scream trapped inside. He didn't meet Dean's eyes; instead he scanned the forest around behind his brother knowing how quickly the wendigo could move.

Dean walked cautiously to the fire and began to slowly, carefully kick dirt over the flames, stomping on the flare until it was extinguished. He swallowed a suddenly nauseous feeling and the trees in front of him doubled, then slid back to where they belonged. He knew he was in trouble. The combination of the sharp pain from the new wounds on his back and the slow, sullen pain in his head and arm were swiftly wearing him down. The pain spoke to him. Told him it was staying around for awhile.

He started to turn back toward Sam, his gut clenching as he thought of how pale and drawn his brother looked. The ride in the travois, while quite literally their only hope of escape, had been hard on him and wasn't about to get any easier. He gripped the gun, completing his turn, and about bit through his lip when he saw the wendigo standing in the clearing he'd just vacated, on the other side of Sam.

"_Seyenz,_" the whispered voice came from everywhere. Dean's eyes widened and he began to pull the gun up. He was sick of this bastard putting Sam between them.

"Dean, wait!" Sam spoke up, his voice low, urgent.

Dean held his right arm straight, left hand supporting it, his head tilted to the side so that he could get a bead on the creature. He couldn't afford to miss.

"Dean, listen!"

"What, Sam?" he growled.

"It can't get me!"

"Yeah, so?"

"It's toying with you, man," Sam said, his teeth clenched. "It can't get to me."

Sam's abbreviated logic hit home. _You only have one shot, Dean, make it count… don't fire from emotion… _Dean started to lower the gun. _Be smart, Son. Be smarter than the bad guy…_ Smarter than the bad guy. Right. How do you outsmart a somewhat-human wendigo? Dean blinked and in a blur of motion the wendigo moved from the other side of Sam to stand directly in front of Dean. He almost gagged at the stench, stumbling back in surprise.

"_Seyenz_," this time Dean saw that the words came from the creature, its head tilting crazily to the side. Dean blinked rapidly, his mind searching in vain for a solution smarter than shooting it point blank with the flare and potentially lighting himself on fire.

Before he got a chance to think much past _fire bad_, he was flying through the air. He landed, hard, on his left side in the clearing near Sam. If he could have gotten air into his tortured lungs he would have screamed from the pain in his arm. He blinked wildly up at Sam. Panic, complete in its purity, took hold of him and dug deep. _We have to run… we have to get out… get Sam, drag him… get out…_

He was finally able to gasp in a breath of air, but just as he did he was ripped up from the ground and felt the wind rush passed his cheeks as he was flying again. This time when he landed, he curled in and tucked his head. He just needed to breathe, just get his breath. If he could get a second to _fucking_ breathe…

"Dean!"

The fear in Sam's cry cut through the fog in his head. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. The wendigo stood above him. The dead, puppet-master smile graced its skeletal face. It lifted a hand, the lethal nails flashing in the mid-day sun that broke through the trees. _Oh shit,_ Dean thought.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Bullets slammed into the wendigo twice before it screeched and blurred away. Dean twisted around to look at Sam. He looked terrible in his fury, the gun still trained on the empty air where the wendigo stood, his body twisted at the waist to keep his leg steady, his jaw set, his eyes dark.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing, Sam?"

Sam pulled his lips back, sliding his eyes to Dean in an expression of defiant anger Dean had seen too many times – only in times past it had been directed at their Dad. "I think I'm stopping that bastard from turning you into lunch."

Dean rolled to his knees, looking around. "Where did it go?"

Sam shrugged, tipping the gun up so that it wasn't pointed at his brother. "Trees?"

Dean stood carefully, looking around. "Maybe we should… should go," he said, trying to pull in air. His back flashed hot with each breath.

"It will track us," Sam shook his head once.

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah," Sam said immediately, "You get on this canvas and we wait it out."

Dean shook his head, "You're staying put, Sammy." He started to close the distance between them, holding the flare gun in front of him.

"Dude, get on the canvas _with_ me," Sam said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother this battered and still on his feet. Dean had been hurt pretty bad before, but Sam had never seen him fight through it like this.

Dean lifted his head, his eyebrows pulled together. He opened his mouth to say that there was no way in hell he was sitting on Sam's lap and waiting for the wendigo to show up when he was sidelined by a pale blur. The impact knocked the flare gun from his hands, but this time when he fell toward the ground he grabbed the paper-thin skin of the wendigo's wasted arms as he went down.

The creature screamed in fury, but Dean held on -- held on as if his life depended on it, as if _Sam's _life depended on it. His teeth bared, a growl in his throat, he held on and rolled with the creature on the forest floor. _You are _not_ going to get the best of me… you will not get my brother… you will not destroy us… you will _not_ destroy us…_

He felt a strange sort of strength blossoming from somewhere in his gut and he harnessed it, using it to push the wendigo from him, to reach with one swift hand for the knife he'd somehow managed to keep lodged in the waistband of his jeans, to wield the knife with the expert hands of a man who knew it better than a lover, and to plunge the silver blade into the side of the creature.

The creature's scream physically shook him, the stench made him gag, but still he held on. He removed the knife when the wendigo turned them, the creature working to gain back control, working to get its claws into Dean's neck, working to deliver the incapacitating blow, and he plunged it in again, this time joining the wendigo's scream with his own cry of pain.

The wendigo tried to pull away, bracing its body on Dean's wounded arm, pushing from its prey in a tangled confusion of reversed roles. Dean held firm. This was it. This was his final stand. If he failed now, he failed them all. He failed Sam.

"_Nagazh,_" the wendigo screeched. It managed to get a bit of distance and Dean started to lose his precious purchase on the creature's arm. With a desperate attempt to regain his grip, his strength, he reached for his knife, but the turn of the wendigo pulled it from its body.

"Dean, down!"

It was John's voice. He responded immediately, his knife gripped in his hands, he let his body go boneless, dropping to the forest floor. He heard the _shhnt_ as the flare-gun fired and then the satisfying scream of pain and anger as it found its mark in the body of the wendigo. He instinctively covered his face and head; the creature had been barely a foot from him when the flare hit.

As it burned, Dean stayed covered. He waited until the screaming stopped before cautiously peeking out from behind his arm to look at the still burning ashes of the wendigo. Slowly, painfully, he rolled to his back wincing as the scores from the wendigo's claws made contact with the forest floor. His only thought was _how did Dad find us? _

When he turned, however, he didn't see his Dad. He saw Sam. He was barely three feet from him, lying on his stomach, his chest lifted from the ground, his right arm slowly lowering the now-empty flare gun. His jaw was set, his eyes dangerous. Dean blinked at him in shock. Wounded and sick maybe, but sure as _hell_ not helpless.

"Sam?" he said, his voice cracking.

"You okay, man?"

Dean couldn't answer him. He just blinked at Sam. It had been _Sam's_ voice… "Y-you sounded…" he swallowed, "you sounded just like Dad."

Sam lowered the gun the rest of the way, carefully pushing himself to his back and sitting up. "No wonder you reacted so fast," he said on an exhale of pain.

Dean still didn't move. His body was in a half-curl, pulling his back off of the ground, and his left arm cradled in his right hand. He couldn't seem to pull his thoughts together, and Sam kept sliding out of focus.

"You broke your promise," he said suddenly, realizing that Sam was several feet from the travois.

Sam looked at his brother out of the corner of his eyes. "Yeah. I did."

Dean blinked, dropping his head to the ground, unable to hold it up any longer. "Took you long enough," he said, a corner of his mouth pulling up into a trembling smile.

Sam's tired grin reached his eyes as he shook his head. "You're a friggin' jerk," he replied.

Dean's automatic echo of "Bitch" was faint. The rush of strength that had allowed him to stab the wendigo drained swiftly from him and in its place flowed complete weariness and perfect pain. He blinked his eyes at Sam, trying desperately to pull the two images of his brother together into one. The part of his brain that was still processing coherent thought screamed at him to _get up, get to the car, get Sam to help_… but it was being drowned out by the increasing volume of his heartbeat in his head.

"Dean?"

He tried to roll over, tried to get his arms under himself to push to his knees… if for nothing else than to crawl closer to Sam. But he couldn't get his body to cooperate with him. His legs were like lead weights, the ache in his left arm went to the bone, and the white-hot pain in his back seemed to be increasing. He took a shaking breath, still working to focus on Sam. He could see his brother's face, could see Sam leaning closer, pulling himself along the forest floor, but his features were distorted, blurred.

"Dean? Hey, hey man," Sam's voice dropped in pitch.

Dean had heard this tone before. He'd heard it in the hospital after the rawhead, in Massachusetts after the banshee, in New Orleans when he'd been in that box. Sam was worried, scared. For him. He opened his mouth to reassure his brother, but couldn't get any sound past his frozen throat. He blinked slower. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a little bit… maybe if he just rested for a second.

"Dean! No, hey, come on, man. Open your eyes," Sam's voice became urgent.

_So tired, Sammy… hurts…_

"Dean, don't, please, don't fade on me now… it's gone, man! It's dead! We can get out of here… aw, dammit. DEAN! Hey… just a little longer, man, okay? The car can't be far… Don't… I can't do this on my own…"

Sam's voice was fading in and out like a static-filled radio station. Dean pulled every ounce of energy he had and focused it into opening his eyes once. His hazel eyes caught Sam's, now looming close, and then, his exhaustion complete, he closed them allowing the welcoming darkness to fold him in her embrace.

Sam watched his brother's eyes close and pounded his fist on the ground in frustration. He looked back over his shoulder to the travois. It was about eight feet from him. Dean's jacket with the water and other provisions stuffed into the pockets was on the travois. He had to either pull himself and Dean to it, or pull it to them. _Damn_, but his leg hurt.

"Okay," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Okay."

He reached over and grabbed the collar of Dean's shirt with his left hand, keeping his brother's limp body away from his wounded leg, and with his right hand began the slow, tedious eight-foot journey back to the travois. By the time he reached it, he was trembling with exhaustion and near tears from pain, but he was there. He had Dean and he was there.

He uncapped the water, holding the precious supply to his brother's lips and pulled Dean's mouth open to pour a little in, then pressed his lips closed, massaging his throat so Dean would swallow. He did that twice more, then capped the bottle, putting it back on the coat. The sun was shifting slowly through the tree canopy, throwing angled shadows on the forest floor and across the brothers.

Sam closed his eyes, leaning his head over so that his forehead touched Dean's. He could feel the cold shivers of the fever that had been dogging him all night wrap around him now that he didn't have to concentrate on fighting, on keeping Dean in the fight, on keeping Dean in sight. He let out a shuddering sigh, gripping his brother's arms in the closest he'd come to a hug since he'd been ten. He pulled his left hand back at the wet sticky feeling, looking at his palm. It was covered in Dean's blood.

Sam pressed his lips down in a frown. This was bad. If he couldn't get Dean awake… this was bad.

"What do we do, now, huh?" Sam said, his voice shaking from suppressed tears of pain and frustration. "You're the one with the plans, Dean. What do we do now?"

Dean lay with his head on Sam's leg, his body completely limp. His mouth was slightly parted, his lashes outlining the purple smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, his face a mottled combination of dirt and blood. From this angle Sam could see freckles across Dean's nose. Funny, he'd forgotten his brother had freckles. How could you look at someone every day of your life for almost a year and miss something like that?

As he stared, he saw Dean's eyes roll beneath his lids, dreaming. He frowned. Winchester dreams were never good. He shifted his weary body back against the tree the travois was under, pulling Dean up further into his lap, so that he could hold him carefully against his chest, keeping his right leg out and away from his brother. It was then he noticed Dean's back. Four gouges cut from his left to his right side, two of them bleeding enough to worry Sam.

"Oh, Jesus, Dean," he whispered. Out of options, he simply pulled Dean against him resting his cheek on the top of his brother's head. "Just… just don't go, okay? Just don't leave me alone."

Dean stirred, and Sam pulled away to look at his brother's face. His eyes moved rapidly under his lids, but he didn't wake. Holding him a little tighter, Sam leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes.

www

Kingman, AZ 2003

_It had been quiet. For days. Five of them, actually. Five days of almost complete silence in the small house they'd rented for three months. Three months was a long time to be in one place these days. Since Sam had graduated high school, Dad had been restless and Dean was happy to oblige. He hadn't enjoyed staying in one place too long since he was nine. Since he realized that the bad guys could find them, that evil was everywhere._

_He stood still in the room he shared with his brother. Correction. Used to share with his brother. Sam's bed was made, his side of the closet empty – not that they ever had much to put in a closet anyway. All they owned could fit into two duffel bags. Five days. It already felt like a lifetime._

_Dean looked out of the window that separated the two beds, a small desk and chair positioned just beneath it. He knew what John was waiting for him to do. He knew they were to leave tonight to hunt. He knew it was a spirit, knew they'd find it, salt and burn, save someone else from becoming a victim, a spirit themselves. He knew he was supposed to care. It used to be why he woke up in the morning. Saving people. Hunting things. But now… _

"_Ten minutes," John's voice startled him._

_He turned to see his Dad standing in the doorway, leaning on the jam, one arm tapping the inside wall of the room. He could still remember the anger in his Dad's face. The anger that masked the complete fear that he couldn't seem to show Sam. The fear of not being there for Sam. Of not being able to see him, watch over him, protect him. If John had just let Sam see how afraid he'd been the moment the truth was revealed. If he'd just been… just been _human_ with Sam… just in that one instant. Sam probably still would have left for school, but Dean wouldn't have lost him. Because those words closed a door. John's words. The low, dead voice. The challenge that pushed his brother away._

"_Dean?"_

"_Yeah, ten minutes. Got it."_

"_Guns ready?"_

"_They will be."_

_John just nodded, then pushed away from the doorway and moved out of the room to the interior of the house. He had aged five years in the last five days. He hadn't shaved. Dean was pretty sure he hadn't slept. But he was a stubborn bastard. One phone call. One days drive. That was all it would take. But then John Winchester would have to admit something he hadn't been willing to admit in over twenty years._

_The house was so quiet Dean could hear his Dad open a cabinet in the kitchen and take down a glass. He held completely still, eyes closed, counting slowly. Take away one of your senses so that the others become more powerful. John had taught him to do that when he needed to hear something he couldn't see. This time he needed to hear how closely he was going to have to watch his Dad. What was the beverage of choice tonight, Dad? He heard the cap of the bottle of Jameson swish off, topple onto the counter. _

_Five days ago John would never have taken a drink before a hunt. Five days ago the house wouldn't have been quiet enough for Dean to have borne witness to his Dad's weakness. Sam didn't make the noise that filled the house – he allowed it. Dean was the one that was usually doing all of the talking, playing music, cleaning weapons, generally clattering around. There were only two people in the entire world that he allowed himself to be that way around, to be himself, to let the wall down enough…just enough. And now one of them was gone. _

_Gone. The word sounded hollow and heavy at the same time. He licked his lips, pulling his bottom lip in and turned to his bed, unmade, with the duffel of weapons sitting on top. He lifted it with one handle, and the open bag sagged, his knife falling to the floor. He sat the duffel down and dropped to the floor to retrieve it, seeing on the floor beneath the desk a CD case. One of Sam's. He picked it up. He hadn't heard of the group._

_Sam had always hated his music. Dad's music. Dean liked it because it made him react, angered him, calmed him, empowered him, humbled him. It brought him close to his Dad when John was miles away – even when he was sitting right next to him. Dean had teased his little brother mercilessly on his music choices. Emo rock. _You can't rock and cry at the same time, Sammy

_He flipped open the case, stuck the CD in the player, and picked a song at random. An acoustic guitar played slow, the slip of a finger on a string, a deep, gravelly voice sliding over the notes. It was foreign and familiar. He turned to gather the weapons bag so that nothing would fall out. As he looked to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, the lyrics of the song hit him._

"_So I speak to you in riddles because my words get in my way. I smoke the whole thing to my head, and feel it wash away. Cuz I can't take anymore of this. I want to come apart."_

"_Dammit, Sammy," he whispered. He felt like someone had hit him, hard, in the gut. He stood still, duffel in his hand, his body facing the door, his head turned toward the player, a hand pressed to his stomach._

"_Cuz it's always raining in my head. Forget all the things I should have said. I am nothing more than a little boy inside that cries out for attention, though I always try to hide. And I talk to you like children, but I don't know how I feel. But I know I'll do the right thing if the right thing is revealed."_

_The bad part about having no one to talk to meant that he now had to be alone with his thoughts, alone in his head. That was not a place he wanted to be right now. He turned and hit the power button on the player. _

"_Dean, let's go."_

_He walked to the door, hefting the weapons. He followed his father to the door, to the car, to the junkyard, to the shallow grave. He blasted the spirit with rocksalt when it came after John. He pulled John away from the danger when his Dad didn't move fast enough. He poured salt on the bones, drenched them with lighter fluid, struck the match, and watched them burn. And as he helped his Dad to the car, he realized he had done it all without saying a word._

_www_

"Dad!"

Sam jerked awake at the sound of his brother's voice. His body felt stiff, his leg swollen, and his eyes gritty. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. Dean was lying against him, his eyes wide, glassy, and confused as he looked around the clearing.

"Dean?" his voice was rough from the exhaustion that hadn't been assuaged by sleep. He shifted slightly, noticing Dean's wince. He realized that the cuts on Dean's back had stopped bleeding, but now his shirt was stuck to the open wounds.

"H-he was…"

"Dean, you okay?"

Dean blinked again and the glassiness began to clear. He lifted his head off of Sam's chest and looked around. Sam watched his memory slam back to him, hitting him with brutal force.

"Aw, shit," he moaned, rubbing his forehead with his right hand. Sam watched him look over to the pile of ashes formerly known as the wendigo. "How the hell –"

"You're damn heavy, man," Sam said quietly.

Dean seemed to finally realize where he was. He tightened his stomach muscles and pulled himself to a sitting position, then turned so that he could look at Sam. He cradled his left arm against his chest.

"Dude, you look like crap," he said, his voice as rough as Sam's had been.

Without raising his head, Sam liked an eyebrow. "Hello kettle, I'm Dean. You're black."

"Funny," he looked at the red gore on Sam's shirt. "Holy shit, Sammy. Did it get you?"

"Huh?" Sam looked down at his chest. "Oh, no, man that's from you."

"What?"

"Your back."

He honestly hadn't been conscious of it until Sam said that. Had only felt the pounding in his head, the horrible ache in his arm, but now, like something so hot that it was cold, the pain in his back sucked his breath away.

"Shit," he breathed. This was not good.

"You called for Dad," Sam said, partly curious, but mostly to regain Dean's attention. He saw his eyes lose focus and needed to keep his brother with him.

"I, uh, I think I was remembering… something."

Dean rolled carefully to his knees, moving Sam's legs together. Without using his left arm, he slowly emptied the pockets of the jacket and piled the contents by the tree, rolled the jacket up, and put it at the top of the travois. Then, without saying a word he helped Sam ease back so that he was once again laying on the travois.

Sam let him. He hurt everywhere. The pain in his leg now throbbed when he blinked, when he took a breath, when he swallowed, when his heart beat. He was exhausted. And Dean was here. Dean was here and he was handling it… He blinked his eyes open.

"Dean, we have to figure out a way out of here."

"What do you think I'm doing, man?"

"No way you're pulling me out of here."

Dean didn't reply.

"I think you've completely lost your mind."

"Gee, thanks, Sam."

"Dude, you can barely keep your eyes open. You aren't pulling me out of here."

"Gotta try…" his voice was a whisper.

"What?"

"I said I gotta try."

Sam knew he couldn't say anything to stop Dean. When he got like this the only person he ever listened to was John. And even then it was a struggle. He lay still, watching Dean fight to stand, hurting for him, knowing it was the only way.

Dean got as far as one foot under him when his vision doubled and he had to drop a hand to the ground. He tried again. This time he got both feet under him and took two steps before going to his knees with a curse.

"Dean, please," Sam tried.

"Sam," Dean's voice shook with the realization that he wasn't going to be able to do it. He wasn't going to be able to pull Sam out of there. And now, he couldn't even walk for help. "If I don't do this…"

"Dean," Sam's voice was low, pulling his brother's eyes to him. "Just… just stop, man."

Dean looked at him and swallowed. He could see the effects of the fever and infection were wearing Sam down. His skin was pale and shiny with sweat. But his eyes were hard for Dean to look at. They were shadowed with pain and dull with resolution. He knew they weren't going to make it. He knew.

"God, I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. He let his body relax back so that he sat next to Sam's chest, facing his brother.

"You tried, man," Sam said, swallowing. He reached out a shaking hand to grab onto Dean's sleeve. "You did everything you could, Dean."

"It wasn't enough," Dean's voice was hollow. He'd failed. He honestly never thought he would fail Sam. "I was too confident. I thought we could track that wendigo, help that reservation, save those people… I thought we would win, Sam. I really did."

Sam couldn't bear to hear the defeat in his brother's voice. "We did win, Dean. We did all those things."

Dean shook his head. "Not if you don't get out, Sam. Not if you…" He dropped his head, looking toward the ground, seeing nothing.

"What tribe was it?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. He'd read the name in the newspaper article… what was it? "Ojibwa."

Dean may not have been to college, he may have avoided high school, but Sam knew no one with a memory like his brother's.

"You think that's where those markings on the cave came from?"

"Maybe."

"What were you dreaming about, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "Questions to the end, huh, Sammy?"

Sam knew he couldn't think that way – couldn't let Dean think that way. "We don't know this is it, Dean."

"Maybe you left during the last commercial break, man, but we're up shit creek here," Dean lifted his head a fraction, looking at Sam's face. "No one knows where we are, we have no cell reception, I can't walk more than two steps without doing a face plant, you can't walk period… am I missing anything?"

Sam shrugged. "Only the fact that we went in the opposite direction from the Impala."

"We did what?"

"I noticed it when you went to put the fire out. Sun was in the wrong position."

"Shit."

"Must've happened when you were trying to avoid the wendigo."

"Fucking son of a bitch."

"That would be the one."

Dean sighed. "We're a mess, Sam."

Sam licked his dry lips. "That we are."

"The first hunt after you left."

Sam turned to look at Dean. His brother's eyes were once again fixed on nothing and they looked…old. So much older than twenty-six. Dean had the eyes of an ancient man.

"What?"

"That's what I was dreaming about."

"What happened?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Usual, but it was all… empty. Dad was wrong. I was wrong. Without you… it took a long time to get into a different groove, Sammy."

"I know, man."

Dean held his arm closer to his side. It was becoming hard to move the fingers on that hand. He didn't want to know what his back looked like. Sam's shirt was proof enough that it wasn't good. He reached up and unconsciously scratched at the gash on his head.

"What about you?" Dean asked.

Sam looked over at him. "What do you mean?"

"How long did it take you?"

Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"Dude, when I came and got you that night I picked your lock with a paper clip. No salt lines, no protection at all. How long did that take?"

Sam blinked. "I thought you didn't… y'know, care."

Dean looked at him. "Why would you think that?"

"'Cause I left, man."

"Well, yeah, but it's you, Sammy. Everything you do matters to me."

It was said as such a simple statement of fact that Sam didn't know how to respond at first. He gaped at Dean. When he'd thought of his family during those two years it had been with such a confusing tangle of rage and hurt and nostalgia that he gave hardly a thought to how they were adjusting without him.

"A-awhile. It took awhile."

"You never told Jess?"

Sam shook his head, his eyes clouding at her name. "I wanted, y'know, to, uh, to start fresh."

Leave it behind. "Leave us behind."

"No, no man," Sam protested, his fingers gripping tighter to Dean's shirt. "Not you. Not ever."

"You did, though."

"Yeah, well, I was stupid."

"Yeah, you were."

"I don't know how I would have told her anyway. How do you explain the Winchester definition of normal?"

Dean grinned, looking down. "Well, you don't do it like I did."

"Cassie just –" Sam didn't know how to finish.

"She just reacted like any normal person who believes that the creak in their floorboards is the wind shifting the house, and not a spirit," Dean said pushing his lips together in a frown that belied his understanding tone.

"I think Jess might've suspected."

Dean gave him a look. "Yeah, right."

"Seriously."

"What, did you mix your book on exorcisms in Latin up with her English Lit 101?"

Sam pulled his mouth up in a side grin. "Not exactly."

"What then?"

"Well, for one, she loved music. Girl didn't do anything without it. And I mean _anything_."

"Dude, seriously," Dean lifted the fingers of his right hand in a 'stop' motion.

"Never took you for a prude, Dean."

"Yeah, well, listening to stories of the bedroom aerobics of my little brother is not my idea of fun."

"Anyway, she put on BOC one time –"

"Which one?"

Sam gave him a look. "Are you kidding me with this?"

"No way, man. Was she a skimmer or a fan?"

"A skimmer?"

"Just listened to what everyone else listened to."

Sam shook his head. "It was _I Am the Storm_."

"Good one."

"Anyway, she was playing the song and I had a few beers in me," Sam was looking away from Dean, his eyes soft with recollection. "And I started talking about this hunt, only I didn't say hunt. I think I said… family trip or something lame like that." He grinned at the memory.

Dean grinned in response.

"I said that we'd gone after this dog –"

"Werewolf."

"—and that you insisted that we had to have music to fire us up before we caught it—"

"Killed it."

"—and Dad thought you were nuts, but you insisted and said that it _had_ to be BOC –"

"Of course because it could potentially—"

"—repel anything."

Dean chuckled. "I remember that hunt," he said. "We actually all made it out in one piece."

"Yeah, even you," Sam said his eyebrows up.

"Hey!"

"Jess just listened to me with this little smile on her face. I think she thought I was drunk."

"Were you?"

"Enough to talk about you guys, yeah."

"Ow, Sammy."

"Our lives are weird, man."

"Yep," Dean sighed. "But, I guess I just never wanted anything else."

"Really?" Sam blinked at him, surprised. His eyes felt heavier. "Never?"

"Well, when I was younger, maybe. But, not since… not since the shtriga."

"Dude, you were, what –"

"Nine.'

"How did you know then?"

Dean frowned again, looking out across the clearing, not wanting to look at Sam. _Because you almost died because of me. Because Dad trusted me. Because I let him down. Because I could never feel like that again._ "Because after that I had to protect you. And I did. Until now," he finished, his voice ragged.

Sam swallowed, unsure how to follow that up. Whether or not Dean ever _wanted_ anything else, Sam knew he would never have it. He didn't know how to be anything but a hunter. He needed to be on the move, to be able to hurt something back for threatening innocence, to fight back the darkness in life he saw so clearly. He didn't know how to do _normal._

Sam sighed. He was so tired. He blinked. Dean turned to look at him when silence followed his confession and saw his heavy eyes.

"Go to sleep, Sam."

"What 'bout you?"

"I'll be okay."

Sam's eyes drifted shut, then popped open again. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," he lied.

Sam's dark eyes closed, and Dean reached out with a trembling hand to push his shaggy hair away from his sweaty forehead. For a long while he sat and watched Sam sleep. It was nearing dark. He could see a full moon rising in the east. Well, at least now he knew what direction the car was. From where they sat, he figured they were closer to the Ojibwa Indian reservation than the car.

Sam shivered. Dean eased the jacket from behind his head, opened it and covered him as best he could. How many times had he done this very thing?

www

Blue Earth, MN 1988

"_Why don't you get some sleep, Dean?"_

"_Naw, that's okay."_

"_Your Dad won't be back for while."_

"_I know."_

"_Sam's asleep."_

_Dean rolled his eyes to look at Pastor Jim. What? Did he think he was blind? "I know."_

_Pastor Jim gave him a patient smile. The kind of smile that made Dean squirm. The kind of smile people gave you that said "I know how you feel' when there was no way they could know. No way they could know how _he_ felt this ache, this shame, this guilt. He was old enough to know that everyone felt it differently. Everyone reacted to it differently. Dad got angry, Pastor Jim went to his Bible, Dean got quiet._

"_It's not your fault, Dean."_

_He wanted to tell him to shut up. He wanted to tell him to mind his own damn business. He wanted to tell him to leave them alone. He was watching Sam now. Sam would be okay now. He wouldn't look away. But he couldn't say that stuff to Pastor Jim. God was watching. So he said nothing, and kept his eyes on his sleeping brother._

_Sam shivered a little in his sleep. Dad hadn't given him time to get dressed when he piled them in the back of the Impala and headed to Jim's. The shtriga's attack had frightened them all, but it had seriously pissed off his Dad. And so Sam made the trip in pajamas. Dean shifted his jacket from his shoulders and put it across his brother's small body, tucking the arms of the jacket around Sam's narrow frame._

_He felt Pastor Jim's large hand on his shoulder, heavy, like an omen. "It's not your fault, Dean," he said again, his voice a shade softer._

_Dean wished he'd quit saying that. Wished he'd quit talking. He wanted to move away – he was too close. But that would mean that he had to move away from Sam. And he wasn't about to do that again. Not ever. He shifted his shoulders stiffly, trying to dislodge Pastor Jim's hand._

_Again, the voice was a shade softer. "It's not your fault, Dean."_

"_Stop," Dean forced out through stiff lips._

"_Why?"_

"_Because you're lying."_

"_It's not your fault, Dean."_

"_Stop it."_

_He said it again. Dean felt something shift in his chest, burn in his eyes._

"_Yes it is."_

"_No –"_

"_It is. I left him. I left him and he almost died. Because I didn't protect him."_

"_There is evil in the world, Boy."_

_Dean clenched his jaw. Really? No kidding. He had seen it first hand. He had seen his mother's image reflected in his father's terrified eyes as the fire that consumed her reflected there. He _knew_ evil was in the world. But that didn't excuse him for letting Sam down, letting his Dad down._

"_Do you hear me, Dean?"_

_He said nothing. Pastor Jim was just Dad's friend. He wasn't Dad. He couldn't _make_ him talk. He couldn't make him…_

"_I want you to hear me, Dean."_

_Dean said nothing, just leaned in a little closer to Sam and laid his hand on his brother's chest, reassured by the rhythmic rising and falling of Sam's peaceful breathing. He shuddered at the memory of the shtriga bent over Sam, pulling his life away as Dean stood with the rifle in his frozen hands. What he wouldn't give to roll back time… go back to that moment… he could have changed it all if he'd just moved. If he'd just gotten Sam out of there._

"_Dean –"_

"_I hear you, all right?"_

"_I don't believe you do."_

"_Well, what you believe doesn't make much of a difference, Pastor Jim," he said it belligerently – expecting to get a rise out of Jim. Jim didn't take the bait._

"_Why is that?"_

"_Because some things are true whether you believe them or not."_

_He felt Jim's hand on his shoulder again, but this time it was a softer touch, a hesitant touch._

"_You want to stay here with Sam?"_

"_Yes," Dean whispered. He wanted to stay with Sam. He wanted Jim to go. He wanted his Dad to look at him again._

"_Okay, then. I'll check on you in the morning."_

"_Okay."_

_The bed shifted as Jim stood. Dean heard the door shut and only then did he allow his body to relax. He toed off his sneakers, then crawled up to lay his head next to Sam's on the pillow. He kept his hand on Sam's chest. Felt his brother's breathing. Proof that he got another chance._

www

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you out of this, man," he whispered.

He shifted slowly, trying to minimize the pull on his tortured back. He needed to be close to his brother… needed Sam to know that he was close. His pain tried to push to the forefront of his mind, but he resolutely hammered it back. He needed to be in control. He needed…

Lowering himself to the forest floor, he rested his head on Sam's chest, just over his heart. Its quiet rhythm lulled him to a semi-aware rest.

And that is how he found them. Tracking the wendigo from his reservation after the last attack, he found the cave in the early afternoon, the carnage of the wolf's body shocking and bewildering him. He went into the cave and saw the reconstituted protection charm. Unsure if he should be worried or relieved, he saw Sam's discard pile, the strips of bloody T-shirt, the tracks of the travois.

He followed the tracks slowly, noting the scores on the trees where the wendigo had done the same. He was alert, watchful. He was the best hunter – the only hunter now – of the tribe. The rest were doctors, farmers, school teachers, shaman… no one hunted anymore. And that was, he asserted, why they were easy prey. Their arrogance and disdain for tradition, for the old ways, brought the creature to them. And now many were dead.

In the early evening, when the sky was still too bright to be night, but too dark to be day, he found the brothers. At first he wasn't sure if they were alive. He saw the pile of ash and the distinct markings of a fierce struggle. He saw the travois with the tall, dark-haired boy stretched out on it. The broken leg looked bad; infection had begun. The other boy, though… he leaned forward carefully, not yet touching him. He was in a curled heap next to his brother, his head on the younger boy's chest. He was bloody from back to front.

As he leaned in he could see a bare slit of green showing through thick lashes. He reached out to touch the battered face. The boy flinched, turning his head slowly. The green eyes caught sight of him and blinked. He could see they were glassy with pain and exhaustion. He started to open his mouth to reassure him, to let him know he was there to help. He wasn't prepared for the word the boy uttered in a thin, broken voice.

"Dad?"

WWW

_a/n: Seyenz Brother, Nagazh Leave_

_Song Dean listens to is "Epiphany" by Staind._

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Thanks so much to all of you who have reviewed – and a special thanks to the anonymous reviewers that I can't reply directly to. You all continue to inspire me and give me the motivation needed to continue. Sometimes it's hard to set life aside and write the movie in my mind. But then I get your reviews, and I think, oh, what's one more late night in the grand scheme of things?! _

_A note about this chapter. Dean's been through a hell of a lot, and when that happens, sometimes your mind plays tricks on you to help you survive. That's where I've taken him here. I hope it works for you. With the wendigo defeated, the next few chapters will be pretty much focused on survival and the brother's bond. Let me know what you think – you guys teach me to be a better storyteller._

_Kelly – What would I do without you?_

_www_

_It may be better to be a live jackal than a dead lion, but it is better still to be a live lion. And usually easier. -- Robert A. Heinlein, Notebooks of Lazarus_

Ramble On – Part 5

The sheriff had laughed at him. Doc had conceded that there _might_ be something to his theory. Mark and Brian, well, they were teenagers. They would believe anything. And Mark was studying with the shaman, so he was easier to convince than his brother. But the mere thought that the deaths – five of them in all – could be attributed to a creature of legend, a myth, was inconceivable to the majority of the tribe.

They had lost touch with the old ways. They lived in an age of computers and cell phones. Of markets and refrigerators. They didn't care where the meat came from, they didn't listen to the chants of the hunter, thanking the Spirit of the hunt, thanking the Guardians of the hunters. The tribal shaman was nearing one hundred years old. As he left to hunt the wendigo, he had stopped there to look in the old man's eyes. He'd seen there his conviction. His purpose.

In the early evening, when the sky was still too bright to be night, but too dark to be day, he found them. At first he wasn't sure if they were alive. He saw the pile of ash and the distinct markings of a fierce struggle. He saw the travois with the tall, dark-haired boy stretched out on it. The broken leg looked bad; infection had begun. The other boy, though… he leaned forward carefully, not yet touching him. He was in a curled heap, his head on the younger boy's chest. He was bloody from back to front.

As he leaned in he could see a bare slit of green showing through thick lashes. He reached out to touch the battered face. The boy flinched, turning his head slowly. The green eyes caught sight of him and blinked. He could see they were glassy with pain and exhaustion. He started to open his mouth to reassure him, to let him know he was there to help. He wasn't prepared for the word the boy uttered in a thin, broken voice.

"Dad?"

His heart caught. These two had very obviously been through hell – they looked like warriors home from battle where even the winning side had lost. There was a bloody knife next to the curled body of the boy. It was a hunter's knife. Someone had to know what they were doing to effectively wield such a weapon.

"Easy," he said as the boy tried to lift his head. He saw the immediate flash of pain pull across his face. It was hard to assess his injuries. He had blood covering his back, his left arm and hand, his face. He was slumped on his right side, so it was impossible to see if the injuries covered that side as well.

"Dad?" he said again, blinking his eyes in an effort to pull him into focus.

"N-no, son," he started, his hand hovering carefully over the boy's shoulder as he tried again to raise his head. "My name is Abe."

He looked at the boy's green eyes again, seeing pain, seeing confusion. His pupils were wide in the dimming light, and Abe surmised by the deep gash covered in dried blood near his temple that part of his confusion stemmed from a concussion… the rest, though… Abe looked at the younger boy on the travois, then over his shoulder at the pile of ashes.

"You killed it," he said, awe plain in his voice.

"H-how," the boy began, licking his bottom lip and pulling it into his mouth briefly. "How did you find us?"

Abe couldn't tell if the kid still thought he was his Dad or not, so he answered him as honestly as he could. "I tracked you."

He saw a look of chagrin cross the boy's face.

"Yeah," he whispered, blinking glassy eyes at him. "I guess I didn't cover our trail all that well. That travois was friggin' heavy and… the sonuvabitch played us, Dad."

_Guess that answers that question_, Abe thought. "You killed it," he repeated, somehow needing this boy to confirm that the beast was gone, that his people were safe.

"Yeah," the boy whispered, trying again to sit up. Abe carefully eased a hand behind his shoulder and pulled his head from the other boy's chest and helped him balance in a semi-sitting position. "It was a crafty bastard, though. Not like the one in the cave."

Abe started. "Wait, what?"

The boy nodded, his apparently uninjured right hand going up to rub gingerly at the cut on his head. Abe winced in sympathy. Kid must have one hell of a headache.

"It… it talked," the boy said, the heel of his hand pressing into the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing in obvious pain.

"The one in the cave?" Abe said, staring hard at the boy.

He shook his head. "There were two," he sighed. "This hunt did _not_ work out like we'd planned."

Abe looked from the green-eyed boy to the one on the travois. He was unconscious and breathing heavily. His face was covered with a sheen of sweat and there was a fever flush coloring his pale skin. Abe could see blood on the side of the jacket that was covering him, but a quick examination helped him realize that the blood was not his. It was… what were they, partners? Friends?

"Dad, check on Sammy, okay?" the boy whispered as he held his head gingerly.

Brothers. That was the tone he heard. They were brothers, and this one was the older one, the protector. Simply looking at him, Abe could tell he was hanging on by a very thin thread, and yet his concern was for the other.

Abe looked at the boy's – Sammy's he remembered – leg. "You set it well," he said. "But it needs attention. That's where the fever is coming from."

"Yeah," the boy sighed again, the word barely more than an exhale of air. "He wouldn't go to sleep."

"Why not?"

"He was… he was worried about me," he replied. Abe was amazed at the note of disgust he heard there. "He falls and breaks his leg fighting that sonuvabitch and he's worried about me."

"You don't look too good, Son."

"M'fine," he said, waving his right hand dismissively. "We gotta get Sam back to the car, Dad. Get help. Can't call from here."

"Where's your car?"

"Over off of Kingsley Trail." He said, rolling his neck.

Abe sat back on his heels. Kingsley Trail was about ten miles west of their location. His reservation was a five miles east. He knew he had to get these boys to help. Though awake and speaking, the older boy was badly injured and his confusion about Abe's identity worried him. He knew that he could get them help back at the reservation, but how to convince him it was the right idea?

"We're closer to the reservation," he said.

"That's what I thought," the boy answered, staring at the ground, but Abe could tell he wasn't seeing anything. He could hear it in his voice… this kid was blaming himself for something. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said softly.

Abe couldn't help himself. "What for?"

"I couldn't get him out. I really screwed this up," Abe looked at his profile, watched the jaw muscle jump, watched the chin quiver slightly. He knew nothing about this kid – not even his name – and he suddenly ached for him.

"Let's just get you guys out of here," Abe replied, trying to figure out the best way to do that very thing.

"He killed them both," the boy whispered.

Abe had started to stand up, but dropped back to the ground at that. "What do you mean?"

"Sammy," the boy clarified, giving him a quick sidelong glance. "You would have been proud of him, Dad. He killed them both."

Abe gaped at the unconscious form on the travois. "How?"

Lips pressed together, the kid shook his head once. "Just did. You trained us well. The damn thing threw me off a ledge – into a wall. When I came to, he'd taken it out."

"The one in the cave," Abe asked, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there were two. After the third body had been discovered, he'd figured out where one had come from – the only one, he'd thought. He'd back-tracked the signs, the tell-tail signs that took him back to the old shaman. He learned of the one who'd preceded him, learned what abuse of that power could lead to -- had led to. But two? Where had the other one come from?

"Yeah," the kid said. "This one, though… it wasn't… wasn't," he paused, and took a breath. "It _said_ something. Bastard could still talk. Sounded like… séance."

With a cold chill, Abe realized what the boy meant. _Seyenz._ Brother. Had that meant the creature knew he was battling brothers? Or… did that mean the other wendigo… Abe suddenly realized that the kid had rolled to his knees and was attempting to get his feet under him.

"Wait, wait," Abe said, trying to keep the boy seated for a moment longer. He had to figure out how he was going to get both of them out of there, and he didn't want this kid passing out on him.

"Dad, Sam needs help," he said, turning to face him. Abe braced himself for the flash of realization that he wasn't the person he thought he was; he knew by looking at the boys that their father was more than likely _not_ Native American. But the wounded eyes simply blinked at him. "We _can't_ wait."

Abe knew nothing about head injuries. He knew where to apply a tourniquet, how to set a bone, but when it came to the mind, he was out of his element. He wanted to know the boy's name, but his father wouldn't ask that question. He wanted to make the boy wait, check his injuries, but the kid was determined to get his brother to safety. In frustration, Abe shrugged the backpack off of his shoulders and snapped at the boy.

"Just _wait_. We'll get your brother help soon enough," his voice was clipped, harsh with concern.

"Yessir," was the immediate response.

Abe's eyebrows went up, but he masked his surprise lest the boy see him. So, it was the direct approach with this kid and his old man, then. Abe could do that. His father had been in the Navy. Abe was used to following direct orders; he could just as easily give them.

"First, let me see where you're injured," he said.

"I told you, I'm fine! Sam's leg –"

"Hey," the tone cut the boy's words off. "I am either going to need to carry you out and come back and get him, or visa versa. I need to see you to know which way it's going to go."

The stricken look that crossed the boy's eyes hit Abe like a punch to the gut.

"We're not leaving him, Dad," he said.

"Listen –"

"NO. No way. I can walk. I'll walk," the voice shook with pain and emotion.

"Son, you look like you got more blood on the outside of you than on the inside," Abe protested.

"C'mon, Dad. I've been hurt worse than this. Remember the werewolf in Cripple Creek?"

Abe swallowed. He felt the blood drain from his face, but the kid was looking down again and didn't notice. Werewolf? What had these boys dealt with? He had just come to accept the fact that the wendigo was not a story of myth and legend, but a real threat to the survival of his people. But, a werewolf? What was he going to say next, that ghosts were real?

"Fine," Abe said when he could trust his voice. "But I still need to know what we're dealing with."

"Fine," he echoed. "First one took a swipe at my arm and threw me against a cave wall, and second one took a swipe at my back."

Abe swallowed, and watched the kid look down at something next to him. He picked up the large bowie knife, dirty with blood.

"I got the bastard back, though," he said softly, an odd little smile turning up the edges of his mouth.

"Dean," the word was low, and the voice was strained. The kid dropped the knife and immediately turned to the figure on the travois, hissing in pain as his body rebelled against his sudden movement. Abe breathed a small sigh of relief at finally knowing his name.

"Hey," he said, "hey, Sammy. I'm here."

Abe watched as Sam turned his face toward his brother's voice, not opening his eyes. Dean gripped Sam's hand to back up his words.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't move or speak again, he just lay with his face turned toward Dean, his hand lax in his brother's hand. Abe watched the muscle in Dean's jaw jump. He was surprised at how much this boy conveyed with such subtle expressions. His worry for his brother was palpable.

"Sam?" he said again, giving his brother's hand a shake. When Sam didn't respond, Dean bowed his head slightly, then looked up at Abe.

"We have to get him out of here," he said in a broken voice.

Abe gave in. The look of pained despair in those eyes was too much for him. He nodded.

"Yeah, okay," he dug through his backpack for his canteen. "Here, drink some first."

Dean took a long swallow, then turned to his brother. Prying Sam's mouth open, he poured a little water in, closing his mouth to help him swallow. He did that a few times over until he was satisfied. He then handed the canteen back to Abe. Abe stood, shouldering his rifle, then reached a hand down to Dean. Dean was looking at his gun.

"Since when do you have a hunting rifle, Dad?"

Abe shrugged. "Why?"

"Wait, you were tracking us?" he asked, as though rewinding their conversation in his head.

Hearing the suspicion creep through Dean's voice, but not knowing where it was coming from, Abe simply nodded.

"Did you know what we were hunting?"

"I had my suspicions," Abe answered carefully.

"Dad," Dean said in an incredulous voice. "You can't kill a wendigo with a rifle."

Abe thought fast. "I wasn't after the wendigo, I was after you two."

Dean blinked. Somehow in his tangled head that seemed to make sense and Abe breathed out a sigh of relief when he nodded. Dean looked down at Sam, releasing his hand, and laying it across the younger boy's chest.

He then reached out a hand to Abe. Abe knew hauling him up from the ground like that would pull on his back; he bent low before Dean could protest, stepped up next to him with an arm low across his back, avoiding the cuts.

"On three," Abe said. "One, two –" he felt Dean push up and lifted him the rest of the way.

Dean's stifled cry of pain pulled at Abe's heart. How was he going to get him to walk five miles? He held onto him for a moment as he caught his breath. As he stepped away, he did so slowly, keeping his right arm in his grip until he was sure that Dean had his balance.

"Dad?"

Abe cringed at his deception. "Yeah?"

"Thanks," Dean's voice was a low. "Thanks for coming for us."

Abe closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. "Dean, I'm not –"

"I know that you probably want to read me the riot act about now," Dean continued, his eyes cast down, pinned to his brother. "And believe me, I know I deserve it. But… just… let's get Sammy out of here first, okay?"

Abe nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. He left Dean standing with his feet spread slightly apart for balance and walked around to the front of the travois. It looked like he'd fashioned a harness out of a green duffel bag.

"You made this thing?"

Dean nodded.

"Not bad, kid," Abe admired.

"Geeze, you and Sam are just alike," Dean shook his head. "No respect."

Abe had to grin at the sarcastic tone. The sun was below the horizon and the brilliant gold of the sunset didn't quite permeate the darkness inside the forest. The canopy of trees filtered the still-weak starlight, but as the sun faded, the moon's brilliance grew and began to sneak through the openings in the trees to bathe the three of them in a blue-white light. Dean stood still, looking at him, waiting. The blood on his face appeared black in the moonlight, and the unmarked side of his face was almost white. He could see the kid shake with pain and exhaustion, but he held himself as still as possible, awaiting instructions, awaiting an order.

Abe looked around and saw a pistol and a flare gun not far from the knife Dean had dropped on the ground. He walked over and picked both up. He looked at the flare gun questioningly, then his eyes shot over to the pile of ashes. _You can't kill a wendigo with a rifle…_ It hit him then just how out of his element he had been when departing on his crusade to save the reservation. He'd been hunting bear, deer, and the like for the better part of thirty years – longer than either of these boys had been alive. And yet, had they not found and killed the wendigo first, he would have become its next victim.

He put the weapons in his backpack, then shifted it low on his back to make room on his shoulders for the harness. He saw how Dean had tied the harness together so that it dispersed the weight evenly across his chest and didn't pull on his arms. Considering the shape of Dean's left arm, it was created that way purposefully. Kid was damn clever.

Abe looked over his shoulder at Dean, who was standing where he left him, listing slightly to one side, his left arm cradled in his right hand, his eyes now on his brother. There was something about the look on his face, the way his eyes seemed riveted, his brows pulled together across the bridge of his nose, lips pressed together in a small frown… Abe was trying to place the expression. Concerned, sure, but… something else.

"Dean," he said, calling the eyes up to him. "Here's how it's gonna go, you with me?"

Dean nodded, but Abe didn't miss the tremble that shook his body. Resolutely ignoring it, he continued. "I'll lead the way with Sam here. You keep close, watch him, okay?"

It was the right thing to say. He saw the defeated expression vanish and in its place swiftly flowed resolve. Giving him something to do, telling him to watch Sam, had kick-started a reserve of energy in Dean that Abe hadn't been sure was there. If he wasn't going to be able to walk the five miles to the reservation, he would kill himself trying. That much was obvious.

"You ready?"

"Let's do it," Dean nodded.

Abe shifted the harness and lifted the top of the travois from the ground. He heard Sam groan once at the movement, but then fall silent. He took a couple of steps forward, then looked over his shoulder. In the moonlight, he could see Dean next to the travois, his eyes on his brother, his expression miles away.

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Brookings, SD 2006

"_What the hell are you doing here?" Sam's smile of pleased surprise turned to worry in the space of a heartbeat._

_Dean leaned weakly against the doorframe. He hurt everywhere, he could barely breathe, and he knew that if Sam didn't help him inside he was going to fall on his face inside of two minutes, but he had never been more happy to see his brother than in this moment. "I checked myself out."_

"_What, are you crazy?"_

I would have been if I had to stay in that hospital, alone, one more minute._ "Well, I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot." He shrugged, using sarcasm as a defense against the very real fear that was gripping him harder than the pain in his chest. He was going to have to leave Sam. And there was no coming back from this trip._

_Sam shook his head with a laugh of disbelief. He opened the door wider to let Dean roll his shoulders from the door jam to the inside wall for support. "You know, this whole I-laugh-in-the-face-of-death thing? It's crap. I can see right through it"_

I know, Sammy. And that's why I need you right now. Because this is all I have left. It's my only defense_. "Yeah, whatever, dude. Have you even slept? You look worse than me."_

_Sam put a hand on his lower back and another on his elbow. In any other situation he would have shrugged him off, but Dean knew that he was two seconds from collapse and accepted the help without complaint. Sam helped him sit in a chair, then dropped on to the bed directly across from him. Though nearly four inches taller than his older brother, when seated thus, Sam's knees were level with Dean's. Dean couldn't help but notice that another fraction of an inch and they'd be touching. When had he craved touch so badly? Just the idea that someone wanted him close enough to them…_

_Sam rubbed his hands nervously on the tops of his thighs. "I've been scouring the Internet for the last three days. Calling every contact in Dad's journal."_

_Dean was confused. That's why Sam hadn't been to the hospital all day? "For what?"_

"_For a way to help you."_

Oh, Sammy. Don't. Don't do this… Your hope might kill me.

"_One of Dad's friends, Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A specialist."_

_Dean sighed, "You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you?"_

"_I'm not gonna let you die, period. We're going."_

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"You still with me, Dean?" It had been quiet behind him for awhile.

"Yeah," Dean's voice was low. A quick peak over his shoulder told Abe that his gaze was still cast down to his brother.

"You need a break?"

"Just keep going, Dad," Dean said, followed by a gasp of pain.

"You okay?"

"Yes," the word was said through teeth clenched against his weakness, against the very idea that he might not be able to make it.

"Sam's going to be okay, Dean," Abe said. Somehow he knew that getting Sam to help was the only thing keeping this kid moving. They had destroyed a creature that moved faster than sight and butchered people without mercy, yet the idea that his brother was in need of help that he couldn't provide was killing him.

"He'd better," was the muttered reply.

"You just need to focus on following us," Abe said. When silence was his only reply, he looked over his shoulder at the wounded man following the travois closely. "Dean?"

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30,000 feet above Indianapolis, IN 2005

"_Come on! That can't be normal"! _

"_Hey, hey, it's just a little turbulence." _

"_Sam, this plane is going to crash, okay? So quit treatin' me like I'm friggin' four!" _

"_You need to calm down." _

"_Well, I'm sorry, I can't!" _

"_Yes, you can." _

"_Dude, stow the touchy-feely, self-help yoga crap, it's not helping!" _

"_Listen, if you're panicked, you're wide open to demonic possession, so you need to calm yourself down _right now_."_

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"Dean?" Abe called again.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

"Okay, good."

"Dad, why'd you come for us?"

Abe closed his eyes briefly. Well, it was bound to happen… he had just started to hope that they could get closer to help before he had to force Dean to realize that he wasn't with their father.

"Look, Dean, I –"

"'Cause you know, you made it pretty clear that being with us…" Dean paused, and Abe heard him clench his teeth against a blast of pain. "Being with us was a danger. Made you an easier target for the demon," this last bit said in a tight voice.

Demon?! Abe almost stumbled at that. Surely he was joking. Abe cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Not joking. Not in that condition. He was completely serious about a demon.

Abe tried again. "Dean –"

"And I went with it. I agreed… You didn't see his face, did you? See how it hurt him to watch you walk away…"

Abe swallowed, unsure how to respond to that. There was so much pain in those words. Abe was unsure how to assuage a pain that went deeper than the outside, deeper than words could reach, deeper than tears.

"Do you know how many times Sammy's saved my ass over this last year, Dad?"

"I'm sure you've returned the favor," Abe muttered. As far as Abe was concerned, of the two boys, Dean was in worse shape and Abe was convinced that the only reason he was on his feet at the moment was because Sam was not.

"That's not the point," Dean argued. "It's my job. You know that, Dad."

Abe swallowed. "I'm not your Dad," he blurted.

"You know he tried to leave me once? Wanted to go to California and find you," Dean continued as though Abe hadn't spoken. "I insisted we go save that couple you sent us to in Indiana, but finding you, being with you… it's all Sam could think about."

Intrigued despite himself, Abe stayed silent, listening to Dean's mumbled memories. He was speaking in almost staccato beats, as though timing his words to a rhythm in his head.

"I let him go, too. I still can't believe I did that. Let him walk away from me. In the night. In the middle of nowhere."

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Burkitsville, IN / Bus Station 2006

"_The scarecrow climbed off its cross?" _

_Dean gripped the Impala's steering wheel a bit tighter, his cell phone in his right hand pressed to his ear to make sure he didn't miss a word. "Yeah, I'm tellin' ya. Burkitsville, Indiana. Fun town." _

"_It didn't kill the couple, did it?" _

_Dean's lips quirked. "No. I _can_ cope without you, you know."_

_Sam ignored that, going directly to the problem at hand. He always thought very linearly, "So, something must be animating it. A spirit." _

"_No, it's more than a spirit. It's a god. A Pagan god, anyway." _

"_What makes you say that?" _

_Dean shook his head, "The annual cycle of its killings? And the fact that the victims are always a man and a woman. Like some kind of fertility rite. And you should see the locals. The way they treated this couple. Fattenin' 'em up like a Christmas turkey." _

_He could practically see Sam nod. "The last meal. Given to sacrificial victims." _

"_Yeah, I'm thinking a ritual sacrifice to appease some Pagan god." _

"_So, a god possesses the scarecrow..." _

"_And the scarecrow takes its sacrifice. And for another year, the crops won't wilt, and disease won't spread." _

_He heard Sam's thoughtful sigh through the phone line. "Do you know which god you're dealing with?" _

"_No, not yet."_

"_Well, you figure out what it is, you can figure out a way to kill it." _

"_I know. I'm actually on my way to a local community college. I've got an appointment with a professor," he paused, shrugging a grin into the phone. "You know, since I don't have my trusty sidekick geek boy to do all the research."_

_Sam's laugh tugged at something inside of him. _Dammit, man, I just got you back… and now…

_After a moment, Sam said, "You know, if you're hinting you need my help, just ask." _

_Dean shook his head. "I'm not hinting anything," he licked his lips, then continued. "Actually, uh—I want you to know….I mean, don't think…" _

_Sam's voice was low. "Yeah. I'm sorry, too." _

_Dean pressed his lips together. He couldn't just let his brother go…not like that. He had to tell him... He needed Sam to know. "Sam. You were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life." _

"_Are you serious?" _

_Dean nodded into the phone, feeling the unfamiliar burn of tears at the back of his eyes. "You've always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I…" _I wish I could tell Dad what I think… I wish I could make him listen… I wish I had your courage… _He shook himself, "Anyway….I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy." _

_Sam's voice was tight. "I don't even know what to say." _

"_Say you'll take care of yourself." _

"_I will." _

"_Call me when you find Dad."_

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"He came back," Abe said, listening to Dean.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Yeah he did. But he wouldn't have found you anyway, would he," Dean wasn't asking a question. Abe simply waited. "You didn't want to be found. And no one can make you do something you don't want to do."

Abe winced. There was an undercurrent of bitterness in those words that he suspected had been developed over many years. He wondered where this man was, this father who had taught his sons to hunt wendigos and werewolves. He wondered if he knew the pain in his son's voice that came from simply speaking his name.

He had to stop at a particularly narrow stand of trees, turning a bit to the right to get around them. The darkness was not a problem for him. He grew up hunting in these woods. He would know how to get home blindfolded. But then he remembered that he had someone following him.

"You hanging in there?" Abe asked. "Dean?"

The silence was weighty. Abe looked over his shoulder, but couldn't see the pale face behind him. He slowed to a stop, easing the harness off of his shoulders, and lowering the top carefully.

"Dean?"

"Where is he," came a rough, weak voice.

Abe started, looking down at the travois. Sam's eyes were dark in the moonlight, not bright like his brother's. There was a dull sort of pain hidden there, shadowed by the fever that was busy burning through him.

"What?"

"Where is he?"

Abe looked up from Sam to the darkness beyond. "Dean!"

There wasn't an answer.

"Go," Sam said, his voice faint. Abe looked down at him. "Go find him."

Without waiting to find out how long Sam had been awake or if he knew who Abe was – and who Dean thought he was – he began to walk in a straight line back to the stand of trees. He could see exceptionally well in the dark, and the moonlight made that talent even easier. He didn't see Dean along the path back to the trees. When he reached the trees, he could see on the other side a huddled mass that could only be Dean.

His gut clenched. He picked up his pace, crouching down at the wounded boy's side. Dean was on his stomach, his right arm stretched out in front of him. Abe reached down and felt for a pulse. He felt the dull throb of Dean's heart beat beneath his fingers and breathed a sigh of relief. He could see in the moonlight the increasing darkness of the back of Dean's shirt. He shook his head. Three more miles. They had three more miles to go…

Dean groaned once, then blinked his eyes open. Abe reached for him and their eyes met. For a split second, Abe realized that Dean saw _him_. He saw Abe. He saw the dark skin, the black hair, the thick braids, the silver earring. Abe saw confusion, concern, suspicion, and wariness flood Dean's wide eyes, and then a heartbeat later, they were gone as if they had never been there. Dean blinked his eyes and mouthed _Dad._

Abe couldn't bring himself to repeat the truth. Not now. The boy was broken and the only thing keeping him together was the thought that their father had come, that he was getting them to safety.

"I'm here, I'm here, Dean," he whispered, rolling him over carefully, and offering him some water from his canteen.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked when he could speak again.

"He's okay," Abe answered.

Dean's eyes immediately sharpened. "Dad, where is he?"

"He's okay, Dean. He's on the travois."

"You left him?"

Abe clenched his jaw. "I had to… if it helps, he told me to."

Dean's eyes widened. "He's awake?" He immediately started to push himself up with his right hand. Abe hurt for him as he struggled against his own weakness.

"Dean, hey, wait a sec, there, pal," he said, trying to stop him. Dean wasn't going to be deterred; he got his upper body up and slowly began pulling his legs under him. "Hey, Dean. Dammit, kid," Abe was frustrated by his stubborn resolve to sacrifice himself to get to his brother. "He is okay," Abe gripped Dean's right arm. It trembled in his hands.

Dean lifted firey eyes to his. "How do you know? You _left_ him," the venom in his voice shocked Abe.

"What the hell did you want me to do, kid? Bring him all the way back here to find you?"

Dean clenched his jaw, his chin quivering once. "Just – just help me up," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Dean," Abe shook his head. "You need –"

He saw something then that he hadn't truly seen in over forty years: devotion. It was as plain in Dean's eyes as they reflected in the moonlight as the blood covering his face. Abe swallowed whatever words he was going to say, and gripped Dean's right arm at the elbow, noting the hand that gripped him back was strong, solid.

He lifted Dean to his feet and helped him find his balance.

"Did he say anything?" Dean asked.

"Who, Sam?"

Dean nodded, moving carefully next to Abe so that he could follow his path, but not so that they touched.

Abe shrugged. "Just wanted to know where you were, and told me to go get you."

"But he, uh, he didn't say…he didn't say anything to _you_?"

Abe went a bit cold. "No," he said, suddenly aching for this boy all over again. He thought of Dean saying that Sam wanted to find their Dad. That he'd left _Dean_ to find their Dad. Something about Dean's complete devotion to his brother in the face of his injuries told Abe that the reverse situation would never have occurred. "No, Dean, he didn't say anything."

Dean's nod was slow, heavy. "He will, Dad," he said. "You just gotta give him time."

Abe didn't know what to say to that. This boy needed his father. That much was plain. He needed his family. Guiding him carefully by the shoulder, without actually touching him, Abe thought that he could at least get him back to his brother.

When they got in sight of the travois, Abe saw Sam raise his head. Dean picked up his pace slightly, eager to get to his brother. Abe's gut clenched at what would happen when Sam removed the mask, showed Dean that their father hadn't come for them.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said on a sigh of relief, stumbling tiredly to his knees next to the travois. "You okay?"

"Me? What the hell happened to you, man?"

Dean's whole bearing seemed to lighten as he grinned at his brother. "I, uh, ran into some old friends."

Sam shook his head. "You look like crap, Dude."

"Well, at least I'm on my feet."

"Barely."

"Whatever, man. I _wrestled_ a wendigo."

"Yeah, well I shot it," Sam retorted, then gasped as an obvious seer of pain burned up through his leg. "Twice," he finished.

Dean frowned. "We're gonna get you out of here, okay?"

Two sets of eyes shifted up to meet Abe's. Abe first looked at Dean, reading the expression he realized he would now always associate with the word _brother_. When his eyes shifted to Sam, however, the look there sent chills down his back. Sam knew. Abe could tell just by looking at him. He knew who Abe was…and who his brother thought he was. Abe realized then that Sam must have been awake for awhile. He held his breath, waiting to see how he'd fill his brother in on the charade.

"I know you will, man," Sam said, looking at his brother. Dean nodded once, and with what appeared to be a monumental effort, pushed himself back to his feet. Sam dropped his head back onto the travois. Abe shook his head, then lifted the harness back across his shoulders. The next mile was relatively quiet, except for intermittent checks from the boys to each other.

"You walkin' with your eyes closed, Dean?"

"Shut up."

"'Cause, you know, if you want to ride…"

"I'm _not_ sitting on your lap, Dude, so can it."

"What? I'm sure he could pull us both."

Abe noticed the _he_… Sam might not be willing to crash Dean's perception of reality at the moment, but he wasn't, apparently, prepared to join in.

"Talk about the ultimate chick-flick moment."

"Just sayin'… offer's open."

"Shut up, Sammy. Go back to sleep."

Some time later, Abe thought Sam had done as his brother ordered when he heard the weak voice speak up from the depths of the travois again. Sam was keeping an eye on his brother; Abe realized that whenever Sam started talking, Dean had started fading. That his machine-like plodding of one foot in front of the other, his single-minded focus of getting out of there, getting safe had begun to waver on him.

"What song is it, man?"

"What?"

"In your head… I know you're singing it. I can see your lips moving."

"Dude, you really can see in the dark."

"Told you."

"Why didn't you ever say so on all those night hunts?"

"My secret weapon, and you're avoiding the question."

"What was it again?"

"The song. You're singing it in beats."

"_Outside._"

"Huh?"

"You know… from the group… the one that you left the CD… when you…"

"Dean!"

"Yeah."

"Don't you fade on me, man."

"Not fading. Still here."

"What CD?"

"The one that you left in our house… in our room."

"In our room?"

Dean sighed, "Dude, _I'm on the outside, I'm looking in…_"

"Oh yeah. I remember now."

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"You left it for me, didn't you?"

"Well, it's not like Dad would –"

Abe heard Sam stop with a strangled stilling of breath. He'd been so caught up in keeping his brother talking that he'd forgotten the act for a moment. Abe said nothing. They were getting closer to the reservation. He simply kept his forward momentum, listening to the brothers, learning.

They'd reached a clearing. Abe knew that the first buildings they'd come upon would be just on the other side of the far trees. First the bank, then the market, then the clinic. He began to reach into his pocket to retrieve his phone and check for a signal when he heard Dean call to his brother.

"Sam," the tone in Dean's voice changed suddenly, and Abe looked over his shoulder at him. He'd stopped walking. Abe stopped, and Sam's head came up off of the travois. Dean was breathing hard and Abe could see him swaying in the moonlight, shadows from the trees casting across his face.

"Sam," he said again, almost like a plea.

"Dean," Sam tried to lift himself further off of the travois, but his shifting pulled against Abe and set him off balance. Abe hurriedly shifted out of the harness, easing it and Sam to the ground.

As he turned around, Dean went to his knees and Abe's stomach sank. He moved forward, but stopped when Sam sat up and leaned toward his brother. Dean seemed to melt forward into the air at the same time and Sam caught him. He managed to hold him so that his left arm was up, his right shoulder against Sam's chest, his back against Sam's arm.

"Dean, hey, hey," Sam said, his voice shaking, soft. Abe stepped forward, unsure how to interrupt, unsure if he wanted to.

"Sam," Dean's voice was barely audible. "I'm sorry."

"What? No, no man, nothin' to be sorry for, you hear me?" Abe heard the tears in Sam's voice, but couldn't see his face. It was bent down, facing Dean. The moonlight hit the back of his head so that a shadow covered Dean to mid-chest. Abe could see Dean's hands visibly shaking.

"Dean? Hey, listen, we're almost there," Sam sniffed.

"Where's Dad?"

Abe bit his lip. Sam lifted his head. He could see the struggle in his tear-filled eyes. Abe simply looked back at him, trying to tell him without words that he'd follow his lead. It was his brother. He knew best how to keep him going. Abe pressed his lips together against the hard ache in his chest as one tear blinked out of Sam's dark eyes, leaving a wet trail down his cheek that glistened in the moonlight.

Sam looked back down at Dean. "He's right here. He's right here, Dean."

Abe knelt next to the brothers. "Hey, Son."

The word had started as a casual reference, a way to mark Dean as younger, a way to greet him when he didn't know his name. Now, though… now it was spoken almost as an endearment, as how he imagined their father would speak when faced with a moment like this.

"Get him out," Dean said, his eyes lowered to Abe, bare slits of color shaded by dark lashes that cast shadows on his cheeks in the moonlight.

"What?!" Sam and Abe spoke as one.

"Dean, listen to me, man… I can wait… I'm okay," Sam tried.

"No, Sam," Dean's voice was calm, belying his trembling body. "Send someone back for me, but you get out."

"GodDAMMIT, Dean," Sam yelled, his teeth clenched, tears now coursing freely down his cheeks. Dean seemed undaunted by his angry outburst; he lay in Sam's arms, calmly looking at his brother, challenging him with his eyes to defy him, to dare tell him no.

"Dad," Dean said, not looking away from Sam. "Promise me."

Sam's head whipped over to Abe. "Don't you make that promise," Sam growled. "You don't."

"Dad," Dean repeated. "Please. Please, you have to get him out," his eyes shifted down. "I'll be all right if I know…"

"Sam," Abe said in a low voice that only Sam could hear. "What would _he_ do?" He was somewhat afraid of this father of theirs, afraid that he would have slung Dean over his shoulder and pulled the travois at the same time.

Sam's eyes narrowed. _Low blow_. "He would leave him," Sam said… _so that's why we can't_.

Abe felt his stomach turn to ice. He understood what Dean was saying -- he would be all right if he knew his brother was taken care of. Abe knew then, knew that no matter how hard Sam fought it, if he took Dean to safety and left Sam behind, he would be killing them both. There was only one thing he could do.

"Sam, let go," he said, softly, attempting to reach out and grasp Dean's arms.

Sam faced him, hatred in his eyes. Abe gasped. He felt an energy ripple through the air. He reached out for Dean again and the energy increased. Abe felt as though something were pushing his hands back.

"Don't touch him," Sam growled low. Abe shivered.

"Sam," Abe tried again, and this time, he found he couldn't move his hands. He swallowed, hard.

"Sammy," Dean whispered. "Let me go."

"You asked me that once before, man, do you remember?" Sam said in a watery voice.

"I remember," Dean said.

"What did I tell you then?"

"That you'd hold on forever if you had to," Dean answered immediately, as if those words were never far from his memory.

"You think that's changed any in the last couple months?"

"Sammy," Dean tried again, "Let go. Let him take you to help. Please. Send someone back for me."

"You wouldn't do that for me yesterday, man," Sam pointed out. "You wouldn't leave _me_, you jerk. How can you ask me to do this, Dean?"

"It's different," Dean sighed.

"How?"

"It's you, Sam. It's you. Just, please… Arrr," Dean clenched his jaw against a burst of pain.

"Sam," Abe said, not trying to lift his hands this time, keeping his voice low and calm as though talking to a cornered animal. "The longer we stay here…"

At that Sam seemed to sag. The energy that had been wrapping around Abe vanished and he found he could actually breathe again. Sam relaxed his grip on Dean and allowed Abe to lift him from his arms. Abe got Dean into a sitting position, then, careful of the lacerations on his back, pulled him to the nearest tree, propping him up against it on his right side.

"Here," Sam pulled Dean's jacket away from him and handed it to Abe. Abe looked back to grab it and saw Sam's blood-covered chest. He paled. Sam saw, and looked down at himself. "It's not mine."

Abe realized then. Pressing his lips together he covered Dean with the jacket.

"Gun," Dean said, lifting his eyes to Abe. Abe looked back at Sam and nodded to his backpack next to the travois. Sam reached in and pulled out the gun he'd used to shoot the wendigo. He tossed it to Abe who plucked it out of the air, ejected and checked the clip, then loaded it and handed it to Dean.

"I'll be back," Abe said. "I promise I'll be back for you."

Dean simply nodded. He shifted his eyes to his brother. "I'll see ya," he said.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, frowning, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face.

Abe looked at Dean one last time; he somehow looked so young, and very, very old at the same time. He held the jacket around him, his right arm out and the gun secure in his grip. He rested his head on the tree and his eyes on Sam. The moon had cleared the trees in its steady rise into the night sky and the full force of its blue-white light struck Dean's face and lit his eyes so that they seemed to burn from his face.

Abe hurried back to the travois, slid the harness on, and began to walk away as fast as he thought Sam's injured leg could handle. He only wished he could spare Sam the sight of his brother shrinking in the distance.

As they reached the last tree line, Abe pulled out his cell and with relief saw bars at the top. He flipped it open, and punched a memory button.

"Doc? It's Abe," he said, feeling the travois shift with Sam's weight as he turned his attention to Abe's conversation. "Yeah, yeah, I know it's late. Listen, I'm comin' in hot with one wounded party and I had to leave his brother on the far side of the clearing just outside of town… yeah, pretty bad… both of them, but the one I left is worse… I know, I know, but it's a long story… hey, listen when you meet them you'll understand."

"I need you to get Mark and Brian and have them ready with a stretcher when I get there. And the truck. Oh, and Doc? Yeah, call the sheriff. Tell him the wend--, er, the serial killer has been, um, handled… These boys. I'll explain later. Just get to the clinic and get it ready."

He flipped the phone shut.

"Serial killer?" he heard Sam ask from behind him.

"You try selling _wendigo_ to a man who has to be shown proof how a fax machine works," Abe retorted.

Sam didn't reply. Abe felt his silence like a weight around his neck. "I didn't want to leave him, Sam," he offered.

"I know," Sam whispered.

"He did what he did because he loves you," Abe said.

"I know," Sam whispered again.

Abe breached the edge of the trees and hurried down past the bank and market directly to the ramp in front of the clinic. The lights were on, illuminating that one part of the street. As Abe stopped the travois, two boys burst through the double doors at the top of the ramp, a cloth stretcher between them.

"Here," Abe said, lowering the harness and travois. "Help me," he moved around to the back of the travois. Carefully between the three of them they lifted Sam from the canvas and set him on the cloth stretcher. Sam clenched his teeth, not making a sound.

"Get him inside," Abe ordered. "Tell Doc he has a compound fracture and is running a fairly high fever with loss of consciousness. Then get your asses back here with that stretcher. I'm going for the truck."

He started to turn away as the men carefully lifted Sam.

"Hey," Sam called in a rough voice.

"Yeah?"

"What's your name?"

Abe smiled. "It's Abe."

"Thanks, Abe," Sam said, his eyes sincere, his face impassive.

"I'll bring him back, Sam," Abe promised.

Sam simply nodded, but Abe shivered at the _you'd better_ implied in the echo of his eyes. As the men pushed through the doors, Abe began to turn again to get the truck when his eyes caught on the black smudges on the canvas. He dropped to one knee, peering closer. When he realized that it was a crude copy of the protection charm from the cave wall, his jaw dropped.

"Well I'll be a dirty name," he whispered. "He kept the creature from his brother…"

Shaking his head, he stood and saw the two boys who'd carried Sam into the clinic charge back out through the doors. Mark addressed him first.

"What is going on, Abe?"

"I'll tell you later," Abe said, starting to jog toward the truck.

"Did you see the markings on the travois?" Brian spoke up.

"Yeah, I saw."

"How did they know to do that?" Mark asked, slamming the truck door behind him.

Abe swung the truck around in a wide circle. "You got me… but it worked."

"It worked? It's dead?"

Abe nodded once.

Brian sighed. "No one else to bury," he said almost reverently.

"As long as we save this boy," Abe corrected.

"_Aambe nimaajaadaa_," Mark nodded, slipping into their native tongue in his worry.

They drove into the tree line, each holding on to a different part of the interior of the cab as Abe maneuvered through the trees, narrowly avoiding clipping the rear-view mirrors on several occasions. They reached the clearing, and Abe made a beeline to the other side.

"_Aanipiish gaa zhaat_?" Mark asked.

Abe clenched his jaw, his eyes searching. Then he saw him, slumped under the dark jacket. "_Mii zhewe, jiigi mitigoong yaa._"

Brian swallowed. "He doesn't look good, Abe."

"He's gonna be fine," Abe snapped, slamming the truck into park. As he jumped down from the cab, though, he said a silent prayer. He somehow knew that if he wasn't able to save Dean, Sam's anger would be terrible… and he didn't know if Sam would survive.

He approached the still figure.

"Dean?"

WWW

Translations:

_Aambe nimaajaadaa. Come on, let's go._

_Aanipiish gaa zhaat. Where is he/where did he go?_

_Mii zhewe, jiigi mitigoong yaa. Right there, he's near the tree._

_Dean's rhythm song is "Outside" by Staind. Apparently it's a Staind sort of story for me._

TBC… I promise not to make you wait long. I finished this chapter and have Chapter 6 nearly complete and will post them close together -- as soon as my beta has attacked. The way the story is coming together I think there will be 8 chapters total… seems to be my number.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Thanks SO MUCH for all of your reviews. I just wanted each of you to know that I've been saving them in a special folder marked "reviews to answer" and I will reply to you. I thought, though, that since I really only get a few hours to write in the evening when the baby goes to sleep that I would spend that time finishing the story, and then respond to you after. Hope that's okay. Each review is much appreciated and inspires me to keep moving forward. You awe and humble me._

_Note about this chapter (do I say that every chapter? I think I do): from this point forward I'm kinda playing with the POVs. I'm working on the notion that sometimes the boys' story can be best told through the eyes of an observer and sometimes we need to hear it directly from them. So please let me know if the POV transitions in this and the subsequent two chapters work for you. Also, some medical terms are real and drawn on from patient experience only, and some I've pulled from back episodes of ER… research gets me only so far … the rest is the magic of fiction._

_Kelly – __Migwetch (Thank you)_

_www_

_To put your life in danger from time to time... breeds a saneness in dealing with day-to-day trivialities. -- Nevil Shute_

Ramble On – Part 6

Sam was surprised how quickly and completely fear gripped him when the boys carried him up the ramp and into the brightly lit surgery of the clinic. He blinked helplessly in the sudden brightness of the surgery, the white walls amplifying the artificial lights that burned brightly from the ceiling and in the lamps that were swung across his body to better assess his injuries. He looked wildly around at the boys as they set him on the bed, rolled him off of the stretcher and ran back out of the doors to Abe.

The idea that he was somewhere Dean was not, that his life was literally in the hands of strangers, that his brother wasn't coming through those doors with that confident walk, his eyes saying that it was going to be okay, was more than Sam's overtaxed system could handle. Dean had a way of commanding a situation just by walking into a room… the rolling of the shoulders, the loose, but prepared set of his arms, the slightly bow-legged swagger caught people's attention before they realized it. The way he leveled his eyes or quirked his eyebrows -- the serious set of his jaw or the disarming grin controlled their response. He was a master of manipulation, and Sam needed him. Now. He needed him _now_.

Sam tried to control his breathing as a small, thin man with longish black hair combed straight back from his face, and wide-set blue eyes stepped up to his bed and started to hook him up to a blood pressure cuff.

"Kid, we're gonna need to cut away your jeans, okay? Okay, we'll give you something for the pain as soon as we get some X-ray's, okay? You hang in there, okay?"

Sam gritted his teeth. The nervous rhythm of the man's speech pattern wore on him instantly. Sam glowered at him as he hovered over his leg.

"It's Sam," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Not 'kid'. My name is Sam."

"Okay, Sam, okay."

_God, this guy is worse than Leo Getts,_ Sam rolled his eyes and let his head follow as he looked toward the window, watching the headlights of the truck pull away. Going to get Dean. Bring him back. Fix him.

Sam felt a pinch on the back of his right hand and looked over. "Leo" was hooking him up to an IV. As he opened the flow rate of the catheter, Sam felt the burn of the cold fluid as it rushed into his veins.

"What's that?"

"Okay, we're just giving you some fluids for now, okay? We'll need to give you some antibiotics for your infection after Doc checks you out, okay? You allergic to anything?"

Sam shook his head, taking a deep breath, working to calm his frayed nerves. They were raw edges of patience worn thin. Dean would have floored this guy with some well-selected words in a way that he wouldn't see coming. But Sam wasn't that clever. And he was weary. And his leg ached into his teeth. And he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. He decided to close them, just for a minute. Just a minute…

"Sam?"

He blinked at a new voice. "Leo" had, thankfully, left the room. An older man, silver hair cut short in a crew cut, a scar down one side of his face, sparing his eye any damage, and a tattoo of an eagle head on the left side of his neck stood next to Sam's bed, hands clasped behind his back, soft brown eyes regarding him coolly.

"Yeah."

"We've looked at the X-rays of your leg. We're going to have to put some pins in to keep the bone in place."

"X-rays?"

The man smiled. "You've been out of it for about an hour, Sam. It's understandable with the fever, but --"

_An hour?_ "Where's my brother?"

The man quirked his head to the side. "Brother?"

"They went back for him. Abe and… those guys," Sam swallowed hard. An hour. They had to have been back by now. Dean had to be here.

The man frowned. "George," he called. "Leo" came into the room and Sam visibly cringed. "Go check and see if Abe came back," he ordered. George left with a silent nod.

Sam realized he had more IVs attached to him. He lifted his arm and followed the line. Three more bags led to the lines feeding into his arms. He blinked at the man. He'd been out an hour and they'd managed to take X-rays and hook him up to fluids and meds and find out what needed to happen and _where the hell was Dean_?

"You have a pretty serious infection in your leg, Sam. If you hadn't gotten to us when you did it would have gone septic."

Sam's eyebrows went up but he stayed silent.

"As I was saying, we're going to have to put some pins in your leg. Pretty simple surgery. You'll be done in under an hour."

"Doc, can you go check on my brother, please?" Sam shifted his eyes past the man's shoulder to try to look beyond the door. It was becoming hard to take a calm breath. He felt it shuddering in his lungs as he exhaled.

"Oh, I'm not Doc. He's probably with your brother. If he's here," the man answered in a casual tone, beginning to adjust the flow rate on Sam's IVs, and check his vitals.

Sam clenched his jaw. "Listen!" he barked, lifting a trembling hand to grasp at the man's white lab coat, pulling his attention down to Sam's eyes. "Somebody needs to tell me where my brother is right the hell now!"

The man's calm demeanor didn't alter. He raised an eyebrow at Sam, his expression saying _or you'll do what, exactly_. "George is checking on that, Sam." He gently pried Sam's fingers from his coat, and set his arm back down on the bed.

Sam took a breath. He started to feel oddly detached, slightly light-headed. He blinked at the man, trying to sharpen the blurry edges of his vision. "Look, man, I'm sorry, but…" he blinked again as the room suddenly swam. "He's… he's all I got… I just…" he blinked again. "Whoa, w-what are you giving me?"

"It's just a mild sedative, Sam. To prepare you for surgery."

"But…" Sam licked his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry, his lips too large for his face. He couldn't seem to form a complete sentence in his head. _Where was Dean? _

"Do you need anything, Sam?"

"Dean…" he whispered as his eyes slid shut again.

www

Saginaw, MI 2006

_Dean cleaned their weapons when he was bored. Sam had grown so accustomed to this quirk that he hardly thought about it anymore. In the small cabin-like motel room they had rented for this hunt, Sam sat on one bed, one leg braced on the floor, the other half bent in front of the laptop. Dean sat on the other bed, his hands moving with automatic precision as he lifted first one gun, then another, going through the routine their father had taught them years ago. He barely had to look at what he was doing._

"_So, what do you have?"_

_Sam sighed. "A whole lot of nothing. Nothing bad has happened to the Miller house since it was built."_

_Dean frowned, ramming a cleaning rod and rag down the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun. "What about the land?"_

_Sam shook his head. "No graveyards, battlefields, tribal lands, or any other kind of atrocity on or near the property."_

_Dean folded his lips down and lifted a shoulder. "Hey, man, I told you I searched that house up and down. There were no cold spots, no sulfur scent, nada."_

"_And the family said everything was normal?"_

"_Well, I mean, if there was a demon or a poltergeist in there, don't you think somebody would've noticed something? I used the infrared thermal scanner, man, there was nothing."_

"_So, what, you think Jim Miller killed himself? And my dream was just some sort of freakish coincidence?"  
_

_Dean shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm pretty sure that there's nothing supernatural about that house."  
_

_The pain began as a pressure behind his eyes, an intense beat that Sam couldn't ignore. He pulled his eyebrows together and began to rub at his temples, trying to ward the pain away. "Yeah. Well, you know, maybe, uh—maybe it has nothing to do with the house." The pain increased until he couldn't seem to take an even breath. He tried to keep up with the conversation, tried to keep on the path that could lead to an answer… "Maybe, it's just, uh—damn—maybe it's connected to Jim in some other way."_

_The pain blossomed then like a supernova behind his eyes. He grabbed his head, his eyes shut tight._

_He heard the concern in Dean's voice as his brother's attention was pulled from the gun he was cleaning and directed at him. "What's wrong with you?"_

_Sam couldn't see, couldn't think. He slid off the bed to land on his knees on the floor._

"_Ah—my head!" He cried out from the pain in his head. It was too much… too much._

_Suddenly, Dean was there. He was there, his hands grabbing Sam's shoulders, bracing him, holding him. "Sam? Hey. Hey! What's goin' on? Talk to me."_

_Sam lifted horrified eyes to Dean's worried face as the vision burst into his sight, replacing Dean's familiar hazel eyes with the horror and gore of Roger Miller's murder. Sam saw it in vivid detail, saw Roger return home, going about his nightly routine, opening a beer, shutting the window, peering out of the window when it inexplicably opened again, and the horrendous finality of the window slamming shut, removing Roger's head in a spray of red._

_Sam blinked as the vision ended, sweating and shaking, his breath coming in short, panicky bursts. Dean was there, his eyes pinned to Sam's, his strong hands gripping Sam's shoulders, his arms bracing him as Sam nearly collapsed from the force of the vision. They had to stop this… he had to stop this… but first he had to stand up. And he didn't want Dean to let go._

www

"He doesn't look good, Abe."

"He's gonna be fine," Abe snapped, slamming the truck into park. As he jumped down from the cab, though, he said a silent prayer. He somehow knew that if he wasn't able to save Dean, Sam's anger would be terrible… and he didn't know if Sam would survive.

He approached the still figure.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't move. Didn't react to the sound of his name. Abe licked his lips nervously and crouched down in front of him. Dean was slumped against the tree where they'd left him, the gun clutched in his pale hand, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. Abe reached out a tentative hand to feel for a pulse. Dean's skin was cold under his fingers and Abe trembled. At first, he could feel nothing. He shifted his fingers slightly and then… there. Faint, but there.

"Boys!" he barked, his relief at finding Dean's pulse quickly replaced by intense urgency to get him to the clinic. "Get that stretcher over here!"

Mark and Brian had been waiting by the truck, both slightly afraid of getting too close… They scrambled as one to get the canvas stretcher and carry it over to Abe. Abe carefully eased the jacket from Dean's chest and rolled the unconscious form forward into his arms. Dean was completely pliant; his breathing so shallow that Abe had to check twice to make sure it was there.

"Here, put it here," Abe nodded to the ground next to Dean. "His back is… well, just be careful."

He thought that the contact of the canvas against the cuts would cause him enough pain to shock him back to consciousness, but as they carefully lifted his limp body from the cold ground and laid him on the canvas part of the stretcher, Abe saw not one flicker of reaction cross Dean's pale face. He nodded once to the boys and they lifted the stretcher and carried Dean over to the truck bed. Abe hopped into the back and reached down to take the handles of the stretcher from Mark.

Easing Dean into the back of the truck and setting him down, Abe flicked a glance to Brian. "You go ride in the cab with your brother. Call ahead to the clinic and let Doc know we're on our way."

He sat down at the head of the truck bed, pulling Dean's head onto his lap to keep it from the hard surface of the truck, and pried open the window that separated the cab of the truck from the bed. Brian remained where he was, standing in the back of the truck, staring at Dean's still form.

"Brian!"

"He… he looks dead, Abe," Brian choked out.

Abe slid cautious fingers against Dean's neck and felt the faint thrum of his stubborn heart. "Well he's not, now get moving!"

Brian blinked. He seemed to be frozen to the spot. Abe opened his mouth to yell once more when Mark's voice echoed up from the cab of the truck. "Brian, it's okay. Just get in here. We're gonna take care of him."

Brian lifted his dark eyes to the cab of the truck, not able to see his brother in the darkness, "I can't bury anyone else, Mark."

Abe swallowed at the beat of pain that flashed across his heart upon hearing the stark emptiness of the boy's voice. He sounded almost shell-shocked. Mark reached out through the open window at the back of the cab, his hand beckoning his brother.

"You get into this cab right now and you won't have to. I promise you. Never again."

Brian nodded, believing his brother over Abe, swung over the side of the truck bed and jumped into the cab, slamming the door behind him. Abe looked down as he felt Dean jerk in reaction to the sound of the door slamming. Abe bent over him as Mark threw the truck into gear and turned around toward the town. He held Dean's head steady on his lap as the truck bounced over the rough terrain.

"Dean?" He'd seen his lashes flicker. He carefully patted Dean's cheek. His skin was so cold… "Dean, you there, pal?"

"Sam…" the name was a whisper of air. There wasn't any weight behind the sound and Abe had to lean low with his ear over Dean's mouth to hear if he said anything else. "Where…"

"Sam's okay, Dean," he reassured, gripping his shoulder with one hand. "He's out and he's safe, okay?"

Dean blinked once, his eyes flashing up at Abe in the moonlight for a brief reveal of emotion. The look hit Abe in the gut with the force of a punch. "I promise you, Dean. He's okay."

Dean's eyes slid closed on a sigh, and Abe went cold. There was such finality in that look, in that breath of air.

"No, no, kid, don't you dare do this to me," Abe shifted Dean off of his lap and leaned over his mouth, trying to feel breath... no air brushed his face. He pressed his fingers against Dean's neck. Feeling nothing, he rested his head against Dean's chest. "Shit!"

Abe raised himself to his knees, and pressed his hands on Dean's chest, one hand over the other. It was nearly impossible to stay balanced with the truck bouncing over the uneven ground. He counted fifteen reps, then pinched Dean's nose and blew a deep breath into his mouth.

"Mark, floor it, boy!" he bellowed. He repeated the reps and leaned over to blow air into Dean's mouth once again. "Dean, don't you fuckin' give up, man."

He repeated the process, counting the reps on huffs of air. Mark hit a bump and tossed Abe backwards from Dean's prone body. He cracked his arm and hand on the side of the truck. He saw Dean's body bounce up off of the truck bed once and when he landed he dragged in a huge gulp of air.

Abe scrambled forward, easing Dean's head up off of the hard surface. "Yeah, there you go. One more, one more like that."

Dean breathed in again, and coughed. Abe cradled his head and shoulders in his lap with a sigh of relief. "You try that again, I'll kill ya," he muttered, pressing the palm of his hand against Dean's forehead. Dean's eyes remained closed, but he was breathing, and at the moment, that was all Abe cared about.

"Abe?"

"Yeah," Abe called back.

"We're coming to the trees," Mark said. "Hang on to him."

"I got him, just get us back," Abe said.

Mark had to slow his pace as he slalomed the truck through the trees, not as skilled at maneuvering the truck as Abe, however, in twenty minutes they were pulling up in front of the clinic. Doc ran down the ramp to help Abe ease the stretcher from the back of the truck. Abe watched Doc's dark eyes flicker over Dean's head wound and bloody arm behind the circular frames of his glasses. His white hair was rumpled as though Abe's call had pulled him from the minimal sleep he managed to grab each night. Operating the only clinic on the reservation was a never-ending mitigation of death.

"Jesus Christ, Abe," Doc muttered, his generous mouth turning down in a fierce frown. "What the hell happened to this kid?"

"He's got some deep cuts on his back, too, Doc, and he stopped breathing on the way over."

"Was it… did you see it?"

They moved through the double doors and down to the other surgery room in the clinic, raised the stretcher and eased Dean down onto the exam table. The gash on his head and the blood on his face and clothes seemed too red, too bright to Abe. He'd been seeing them as black in the moonlight for several hours. Abe then noticed how pale Dean was in the harsh exam light – the moonlight hadn't lied about that. He also noticed that Dean looked younger than he first thought, although the life he'd led had etched on his face a visible sign of its passing, even while in repose. He had seen something truly evil, Abe realized. And it had changed him from the person he might have been into the person he was.

"Abe!" Doc barked at him. Abe snapped his head up from Dean's face and looked at Doc.

"Did you see it?" Doc was cutting Dean's bloody shirt from his upper body, carefully removing it from the open wounds on his arm and back with gentle, expert hands.

The scars that crossed the boy's chest left both men gaping for a moment. Doc recovered first. He began hooking Dean up to a monitor, placing a pulse ox on his finger, electrodes on his bare chest, and a BP cuff around his arm. He set the machine and as the rhythmic tempo of Dean's heart filled the small room. He pulled the oxygen cannula from the wall and adjusted it carefully over Dean's battered face.

Abe shook his head. "Only its ashes."

"Ashes?!"

"They killed it. These boys. And Doc," Abe swallowed. "There were two."

"What?!"

"I couldn't get many details from them, I mean…"

"Yeah, yeah, we'll worry about that later," Doc was focusing on the results of the blood pressure, then looking at Dean's arm, shaking his head. "This kid, Abe. Looks like he wrestled a bear."

"Pretty nearly. Take a look at his back, Doc," Abe said.

"Here, hold him to you when I roll him over," Doc said, easing Dean up on his right side to get a better look at his back. Abe gathered Dean to him, holding him in almost an embrace as Doc examined the lacerations across his back. Dean's head rolled forward, his forehead resting against Abe's arm. Thinking of the stubborn fighter that had followed him through the forest, Abe realized that had Dean been conscious, he would never have let himself be held this way. He wondered fleetingly if he would ever let himself be held, period.

"We're going to have to adjust our thinking here, Abe. He can't lay on these cuts while I take care of everything else. His blood pressure is dangerously low; we need to get some units into him, some fluid, and this arm –"

The door swung open and George stepped in. "Okay, Josh said to check and see if you got back, so, okay, it looks like you did."

"Is Josh with Sam?" Abe asked.

George nodded.

Doc didn't look up, but anticipated Abe's question. "Sam's gonna be okay. Put some high-powered antibiotics in him. He's gonna have to get some pins in his leg, but he's gonna be okay. It was close, though. You made the right choice, Abe. Kid could have gone septic real fast."

Abe looked down at Dean's bloody face. "I didn't choose," he whispered. "He did."

"Well, he's a brave kid," Doc said, easing Dean carefully onto his back.

"You have no idea," Abe said softly.

Doc shifted into gear, barking orders and moving around the room in a blur of calculated motion. It's what Abe had always respected about the man: he was organized chaos.

Sticking his hands under a flow of hot water, he began, "George, tell Mark to bring me three units of O neg, and then tell him to get Brian and go home and get some sleep. Tell them I want them back here in the morning at nine sharp. Then go scrub up. You're assisting Josh in Sam's surgery," he dried his hands and pulled on some latex gloves. "Oh, and you should probably tell Josh he's handling Sam's surgery."

George nodded and hurried out of the room.

Doc continued, "Abe, you and I have to take care of this kid. He needs a real hospital, but unfortunately the closest one's in Walker, which will take too long to get to even if the chopper's available – which who the hell knows -- so we're gonna have to stabilize him and take it from there. You ever had a massage?"

Abe blinked at the left turn in his staccato sentences. "A massage?"

"Yes, a massage," Doc's voice was clipped, impatient.

"Uh – yeah, yes. I have."

"Okay, we're gonna rig a head rest like that for this table so that I can work on his back. You follow?"

Abe nodded. He went to the cabinets, grabbing supplies: a donut for hemorrhoids, a cloth to cover the plastic, needle and thread to secure the cloth, and a square metal table brace. As Abe rigged up the head rest, Doc took Dean's temperature and then started cleaning his head wound.

"He needs a CT," Doc muttered as he finished cleaning Dean's face and palpating the gash. "This cut is deep. What hit him, do you know?"

"He said he hit a wall," Abe said, thread clenched in his teeth.

Doc shook his head, frowning, "What was he doing, mach five?"

"Said the wen—the creature threw him."

"X-rays, too, then. He complain of any pain? Ribs? Arms? Shoulders?"

"Doc, he _didn't _complain. At all."

"He lose consciousness after you found him?"

"Yeah, twice. And, uh, Doc, he – he thought I was his Dad," Abe said, not looking up from his task.

"Something you're not telling me, Abe?"

"I'm serious. He looked right at me, but thought I was his Dad," Abe said, this time raising his head to catch Doc's attention. "I tried to correct him once, but he seemed to need it…"

Doc shook his head, "Sometimes we choose to believe lies to protect our hearts from the truth, Abe."

The clinic was small. It boasted only two exam rooms that doubled for surgeries; Abe saw several pieces of medical equipment around him that he couldn't identify, but as he watched Doc prepped his suture supplies, he figured that he would probably be making use of most of them to care for Dean. Mark walked in with the units of blood, set them down where Doc indicated and left again without saying a word. Abe continued to fix the head rest, watching as Doc hooked Dean up to several IVs – saline, a unit of blood, and a third bag. Doc saw his eyes tracking.

"Antibiotics. That arm is bad. He's running a fever – ear temp says 101. It has to hurt like a son of a bitch, too. I am surprised he didn't say anything," Doc eased Dean's head to the side so that his face was directed at Abe and started sewing up Dean's head while Abe attached the headrest to the bed.

"I'm telling you think this kid could have lost his arm and not say anything until he knew his brother was safe. Doc, these boys…"Abe started, looking down at the closed eyes and pale face. He instantly recalled the look of utter devotion reflecting in Dean's eyes at the thought of his brother. The fierce determination to save him… thwarted only by eventual, understandable exhaustion. "I've never met anyone like them."

"Well, if they did what you say that they did…" Doc suddenly frowned, his eyes flicking to Dean's profile as the steady beat of the heart monitor skipped and sped up.

"Shit," he muttered.

"What? Is he --"

"It's erratic. He's feeling this," Doc said, stopping his sutures. "I thought he was out, but his body has been through a hell of a lot," he was filling a syringe with a clear liquid.

He inserted it into Dean's IV. Abe saw then the line of pain that Doc had noticed appear across Dean's forehead. He'd missed it; having seen it so often during their trek. But as the drugs took hold, the line of pain vanished and Dean's features smoothed.

"Bush league," Doc muttered.

"What?" Abe looked back to him as he calmly set to finishing his sutures.

"This clinic. These boys need a real hospital, Abe."

Abe opened his mouth to attempt to offer another option, but his mind was blank. The only thing he could think of was the shaman and his remedies passed down through generations of healers. As though reading his mind, Doc looked up at him with a glare.

"Don't even think about it," Doc muttered. "No way am I having the crackpot in my clinic messing with these boys. Hell, he's probably gonna turn into one of those things next. Give them something else to hunt – some other reason to bleed all over my surgery. Now, go scrub up. You're gonna help me with his back."

Abe paled. "Doc, I –"

"You saved this boy's life getting him back here, Abe. You gonna let him die now?"

Abe silently went to the sink and scrubbed up. He returned to the bed and helped Doc turn Dean over and carefully position him so that his face was in the rigged head rest, keeping his sutured gash above the cushion and making sure not to pinch the oxygen cannula. He swallowed as he got his first good look at the scores along Dean's back.

As Doc cleaned off the dried blood, both men raised their eyebrows at the old scars on his back that matched the quantity of the ones on his chest. Abe chewed the inside of his cheek thinking of Dean almost casually mentioning werewolves and demons. Their lives frightened him.

"Abe," Doc said in a low voice. "We will need to keep an eye on his vitals. This position isn't going to be easy for him to breath, but, if I don't get these wounds closed… well, I don't think you want to be the one to talk to his brother."

Abe tensed, shaking his head. As they worked on Dean's battered body, Abe realized that they didn't even know his last name.

www

Blue Earth, MN 1999

_Our Town_

The role of George is played by Sam Winchester.

_Sam had rarely seen his real name in print, but they were living at Pastor Jim's and had been for almost his entire Junior Year. Jim Murphy allowed many things, understood many things, but he made it clear to John when he invited them in that only the Winchesters were staying there. No fake names, no scams. John had wanted Sam to get at least one whole year in the same school. Something his brother never got. Sam could recall at least seven high schools for Dean, but he may have missed some. _

_He turned the music up slightly, trying to let the beat of the music seep into him as he watched it do with Dean. 'Course Dean listened to the music his Dad had listened to. And by that very nature, even if Sam _did_ enjoy it, even if it did draw a reaction from him, he wouldn't listen, unless, of course he had no choice._

"_I'm afraid to be alone, afraid you'll leave me when I'm gone. I'm afraid to come back home. Another sleepless night again. Hotel rooms my only friend, and friends like that just don't add up to anything. And I try so hard to be everything that I should never take away from you again."_

_In an oddly reverent way, he ran his thumb over the black type of the program he'd been handed when he left school that day. He never thought of himself as being much in the way of dramatic – he knew Dean would loudly disagree – but one year at the same school had given him the confidence to step out. Try something new. Dean had teased him, as he expected. But he'd seen his brother's quiet smile when he didn't think Sam was looking. He'd even seen the shadow of his brother sitting in the darkness in the back of the school auditorium during rehearsals._

_John, however, had been predictably stoic. Sam knew he knew about the play. He knew John had heard Dean teasing Sam. He knew he'd seen him coming in later from school. Yet he said nothing. Not one word. Not one question. Not until tonight. _

_Sam sat in the room he shared with Dean and listened to his brother calmly talk to his Dad, stating his reasons why they didn't need Sam on this hunt, why Sam could go to his play, why Sam could have normal, just for tonight. "Dad, geeze, he's sixteen, he just wants to do something that's just his…" John snapped back that he didn't want to hear that shit. Didn't want to hear anymore whining from Sam about how their lives weren't normal. "This is our mission, Dean. You know this. _Sam_ knows this. Dammit, you _know_ what's out there in the dark."_

_Sam waited for Jim to step in then realized that Jim was already at the school. Waiting. For him. He had no idea that John had come home and declared a Winchester hunt. The longer he listened to Dean's patient voice the hotter his rage built. When Dean said for a third time, "Dad, c'mon, it's just a spirit, we can get this, you and me…" Sam erupted._

_He ripped the bedroom door open, slamming it backwards against the wall in his fury, and stormed out to the living room, passed his brother and directly up to his Dad. He was already taller than Dean and was able to stare his father directly in the eye._

"_You're a real bastard, you know that?!" he literally roared. His arms were held down to his sides by sheer will; he wanted to grab John's jacket and push him away, against the wall. His father had never hit him – not once. But Sam knew there was a first time for everything. And he knew what John was capable of, so he held himself in check. Barely._

"_Sam!" Dean yelled from behind him._

"_You watch your mouth, Sam," John bellowed back, his nose inches from Sam's, the heat in his eyes matching his son's. "I'm tired of this attitude of yours. It's time for you to step up and work _with_ this family!"_

"_Family?! FAMILY? You don't know what that word means, Dad."_

"_Sam!" Dean yelled again, trying in vain to get his attention. Sam knew Dean just wanted them to stop, just _stop_. But he was too far gone now. He was too angry. And yelling at his Dad felt good. It felt _damn_ good._

"_You want to go live a normal life, Sam? Is that what you want? So your brother and I can go out there and hunt and kill the evil that you fucking _know_ is out there?"_

"_Yeah!" Sam yelled back, stepping even closer to his Dad, his hands trembling with the desire to hit, to lash out, to release the anger in a bright blinding burst of inflicted pain. "Yeah, Dad. THAT'S what I want. I want you two to go out and get yourselves killed so I can go have coffee with my friends. You don't know anything, man. You don't know ANYTHING about me."_

"_I know you're bailing on this hunt! I know you sent your brother out here to make excuses for you!"_

"_DAD!" Dean's voice was getting angry now and Sam felt his presence close to him._

"_Dean just did what he thought was best. He did what he knew was fair. It's not his fault you never listen to him."_

"_HEY!" Dean's voice was loud, raw with frustration._

"_What the hell are you talking about, Sam?! I listen –"_

"_No you don't!" Sam bellowed. "You have no idea what he says half the time –"_

"_ENOUGH!" Dean was shorter than both of them, but his strength was fueled by a desire stronger than anger: hope for redemption. For his family. He grabbed both of them by their shoulders and with a mighty heave, wrenched them apart. The force of the motion set Sam off balance and he toppled back onto the couch. John just stepped back a couple steps._

_Both looked at Dean with surprise. All were breathing heavily._

"_This is how it's gonna be," Dean said, his voice was low and carried more authority than Sam remembered hearing from him before. "Sam and I are going to his play. You," he said pointing to John, "are coming with us. Then we're all going to go get this fuckin' spirit bastard. Together."_

_John stared at Dean and Sam thought that for an instant he saw something akin to respect flash across his father's eyes. He knew Dean was counting on the fact that it took two to get the spirit, stopping John from going after it alone while they were at the play. For a brief moment, Sam was afraid for his Dad. Afraid that his stubborn pride would carry him into that fight without Dean there to back him up. Without Sam there to back up Dean._

"_Fine," John muttered, surprising them both._

"_Get your coat, Sammy," Dean muttered. "You've got some angst to project."_

www

"Gah…" Sam woke up on a gasp of air. He blinked, eerily completely awake. As if he'd never been sleeping. He looked around the stark white of the room, seeing that there was no window, no other furniture besides the tray covered with sterile surgical instruments on a blue sheet. The light above his bed was thankfully off, but the overhead lights were glaring in his eyes.

"Hey," said a voice to his right. Sam rolled his head to see the same man with the eagle tattoo standing next to him, checking his IVs. "How you feelin', kid?"

"Sam," he answered automatically.

"Sam," the man nodded. He jerked a thumb back toward his chest. "Josh."

"Where's my brother?"

Josh shook his head. "You realize you just had surgery, Sam? You have three pins in your leg."

"Where is he?"

Josh sighed. "I'll take you to him as soon as you can sit up."

Sam looked at his right leg. It was encased in a thick, dark blue Velcro-strapped brace from just above his knee to his ankle. He couldn't feel it at all. The numbness reached from his hip to his toes. It was raised slightly from the bed in a sling. Sam saw a handle hanging over his head within easy reach. He reached up and grasped it, pulling himself forward so that he sat up on the bed in a somewhat awkward position with the angle of his leg. His head swam for a moment, but as he held on to the handle, he was able to regain his equilibrium.

"Where. Is. He?"

Josh pressed his lips together. "I thought Abe said Dean was the stubborn one," he muttered. He saw Sam about to open his mouth again. "Okay, okay, kid. Just let me chart your vitals and I'll get you a chair in here." He turned to get Sam's chart.

"Josh," Sam said, his voice low, soft. Now that he knew he would be seeing Dean he didn't have to channel his father. "How is he?"

Josh lifted his eyes briefly from the chart and then looked back down reaching for Sam's wrist to count his pulse. He stayed silent until he'd written the number down.

"Josh," Sam insisted.

"He's been through a lot."

"I know that, man. I was there. I saw him. How is he _now_?"

"They're doing everything they can, Sam," Josh said, tightening the blood pressure cuff around Sam's arm.

_God, no, don't say that… _He'd heard the same tone in the voice of the doctor back before Nebraska… telling him that his brother's heart was damaged… that Dean had maybe a month to live. He couldn't deal with that again. He _couldn't_. They had come so close so many times before and survived… They came so close to losing the fight in the forest and survived…

"I have to see him," Sam whispered. He felt that somehow if he could be there Dean would be okay. If Dean knew he was there that he wouldn't _dare_ leave. "I have to see him now."

Josh looked at Sam like he was afraid he'd jump off the bed and run down the hall, cast and all. "Sam. Listen. You have a very serious infection. We're getting ahead of it, but your body needs rest, do you understand me?"

"I'll rest in there with Dean."

Josh regarded him coolly; he'd dealt with some very stubborn people in his time. Sam stared back and Josh saw in his dark eyes what Abe had been talking about. Sam needed to be near his brother. He realized then that the only thing that had kept them alive, the thing that had helped them survive a battle with two of the creatures that had attacked his people, was the fact that they had done so together.

"Fine," he said, "but you're gonna have to wait until I get a chair and we can rig something up for your IVs. You need to stay on these antibiotics for 24 hours."

"Fine," Sam answered his gaze not wavering.

Josh left the room quickly. He returned with George and a wheelchair. Between the three of them they were able to get Sam out of the bed and into the chair with the leg support out and Sam's leg propped up.

"You hurting, Sam?" Josh asked.

"No, nowhere," Sam answered, somewhat surprised.

"Well, it's the drugs. Your leg is pretty numb now. We'll move the bed into your brother's room later. You let me know when you can start feeling it, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

The fact that the small clinic only had two surgeries meant that Sam's insistence to go to Dean was actually doing them a favor. He was in Dean's room in less than a minute and realized as they maneuvered his leg through the doorway that he'd been holding his breath. Dean was on the far side of the room – which was dimly lit with the overhead lights off and a window letting in the weak grey light of dawn on the other side of Dean's bed. Sam swallowed. His brother always seemed larger than life – an immovable force. But… he looked… fragile.

Dean lay propped on his right side, a pillow behind him and one in front. His left arm was bandaged from the shoulder to the elbow, and there was a white gauze bandage over his left temple. He had an oxygen cannula across his face and Sam could see that a hospital gown had been tied loosely so that his back, though facing away from Sam, was exposed. Sam heard the steady rhythmic beeping of the machine tracking Dean's heart. It was a familiar, chilling sound. One that Sam had hoped to never hear again.

Only when he got close enough to the bed to once again see Dean's freckles did he allow them to stop the chair. Dean's face was still and his lashes were smudges of dark on pale skin. Sam saw that he, too, had several IVs flowing into his arms. Dean's right arm was bent, his hand near the pillow where his head rested.

"Hey, man," Sam whispered, hesitantly sneaking his hand into Dean's lax right one, reaching for a connection that was only possible when his brother was hurt, but that was needed always.

"You boys must live some kind of life," said a voice like liquid gravel behind him.

Sam turned his head to see a tall man with tousled grey-white hair, glasses that covered dark brown eyes, and a mouth as wide as Steven Tyler's leaning against the wall in the back corner of the room, arms crossed over each other. He realized this man had been watching Dean.

"Who are you?"

"Name's Doc. Been working on your brother here," Doc nodded his head toward Dean.

"How is he, Doc?" Sam looked back at Dean. He was so still, so quiet. Dean just wasn't quiet. He was always moving, always had to be in action – cleaning their guns when bored, pacing a set pattern when worried, tapping the rhythm of a Metallica song while driving. Sam had grown accustomed to his motion. The world seemed wrong if Dean was still.

"He's fighting, boy, that's the truth," Doc pushed away from the wall and stepped over to the bed, next to Sam's outstretched leg. "I called the hospital up at Walker. The only way to get him there is via helicopter or ambulance."

Sam paled at the word helicopter. They would have to guarantee Dean wouldn't wake up mid-flight or his fear might injure him further.

"Helicopter isn't available until tonight. Ambulance is a six-hour round trip."

Sam chewed the inside of his bottom lip, watching Doc. He kept his hand in Dean's, noting how warm his brother's fingers were. He waited for the rest. For the good news. For the bad news. For instructions on how to take his next breath.

"Gonna be honest with you, kid. Your brother is either gonna make it before either of those things get here, or he's not."

Sam swallowed, looking back at Dean. "Dammit Dean," he said on a half-sob, folding his lips in to keep the emotion at bay. "Told you to go, didn't I? Stupid, stubborn bastard…"

"Here's the quick and dirty, boy," Doc said, his voice softer now that he'd delivered the facts. "He hit his head pretty good, but CT showed no bleeding and it appears that he was functioning normally before he passed out, so I don't think the concussion will have any lasting effects. We'll know more when he wakes up."

"He thought Abe was our Dad," Sam whispered, his eyes not leaving his brother's face. "That can't be normal, right?"

Doc sighed, "Sam, your brother was moving on nothing last night. On will. His blood pressure was so low when he got here that we put almost three units of blood in him. The cuts on his arm are nasty with infection – probably from the bacteria and dirt carried on the creature's claws. The lacerations on his back were heading that way. He's running a fever. And the only thing he knows is that he has to get you out of that forest. So who does he need to help him do that? Who is he gonna trust to help him? Some Native American hunter that appears out of nowhere?"

Sam shook his head, tears building in his dark eyes as he looked at his brother, at the complete weariness that pulled his skin taut across his cheekbones, at the line of pain bisecting his eyebrows.

"No. He's gonna trust the man who taught him to use that knife Abe showed me. He's gonna trust the man who wouldn't forgive him if he lost you out there. I got brothers, Sam. I know."

"It's not fair," Sam whispered.

Doc shrugged. "Never is. But it's the plight of family. You'll go through hell just to make sure you see them on the other side." He set his hand briefly on Sam's shoulder, then left the room.

Sam leaned forward, easing his IV lines around the edge of his wheelchair. He looked at their hands. Dean had Johns hands. Sam had realized that a few month back. They were powerful, sturdy, calloused… and they fit inside of his. Dean would never allow this if he were awake. Sam wondered why it seemed like the only time they touched it was either in battle or as the result of one.

He cleared his throat, rubbing his thumb across the knuckles on the back of Dean's hand. "Hey Dean, you remember that vacant lot we found that one time we were in Philly?"

He lifted his eyes to look out of the window, watching the gold of the sunrise crest over the leaf-covered hill just outside the clinic. The window faced the forest. Sam decided in that moment that he hated trees.

"It was summer… I think I was like twelve or thirteen. Dad had a job at that garage for awhile, remember? We were going nuts in that little studio apartment he'd rented and so you said we should just roam. You said it would be like patrolling, making sure our temporary neighborhood was safe…" Sam grinned and looked over at Dean's still face out of the corner of his eyes. "I think you were just trying to get me to stop pouting. Not that I do that."

"I remember we came across this empty lot with a basketball hoop, no net, just a hoop. We didn't have a ball, but you said we could fake it. I remember it so well, too – we used a rock and it clanged so loud against the backboard when we shot the baskets…" he looked down at the bed, his eyes years away. "It was just sunset and the whole lot and all of the buildings turned this surreal red-gold, and it was just the right temperature outside, just the right amount of wind… and you were laughing, man… I think even then I knew that was something special, something I wouldn't see a lot."

He looked back up through the window, "And then… Dad found us. I remember he said he followed the swearing and clanging. And he leaned against the chain link fence. He didn't have a beard then. I remember because I could see all of his face. He watched us and he hooked his fingers in the fence and he… he _smiled_ man. He was watching us and the dude was grinning," Sam found himself smiling in automatic reaction to the memory.

It was so rare that he smiled when he thought of his father. He felt something relax inside of him. He was always so angry with John; he could find a reason why John was at fault for nearly everything that had gone wrong in his life. But as he remembered that moment of life with his brother, with his father, he could see a glimmer of what Dean had been saying. John may be flawed, he may be harsh, he may be unyielding, but he was _theirs._

Sam swallowed, and slid his eyes to Dean's face. "You walked home between us. I remember you practically bounced. And you said that it was a perfect day."

He wasn't surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped his face with the back of the hand that was free of IVs. Was he imagining it, or did Dean's face look slightly more peaceful than it had a moment ago?

"I hope you can hear me, man," he whispered. "'Cause you were right. It _was_ a perfect day." He reached out to Dean's hand, his brother's fingers curled against this palm. "I hold onto that, man. I want you to know that it's _my_ anchor."

Sam rubbed his face. "Dean, I know you're tired, but," he took a breath, felt it shuddering in his chest. "I think you need to wake up. I… I need you to… let me know you're still there, you're still with me."

He closed his eyes. "I need you to give me hell for something, man. You can pick the subject."

The events of the last several hours were catching up with his body. He leaned forward and to the left so that his head rested on the pillow Doc had placed in front of Dean to prop him on his side, off of his stitched-up back. He had to turn his face toward the foot of the bed so that his body wasn't twisted at an odd angle. He just wanted to rest. Just for a minute.

"I'll be here when you're ready," Sam said on a sigh. His body relaxed with the familiar sound of his brother breathing, the rhythmic beep of the machine tracking Dean's heart.

_Sam…_

He awoke with a start, unsure how long he'd been out. He had the distinct impression that he'd heard his name… almost whispered, but it had been his name. He sat up stiffly, unfolding his arm from underneath him. His leg had begun to ache and the sun was pouring into the window in dusty beams of light. He rolled his neck, popping the joints and stretching his back. He turned his head and froze when he looked at Dean's face.

Dean's eyes were open, on him, watching. Sam's face relaxed into an immediate smile.

"Hey," he whispered.

Dean blinked and in his eyes was a look Sam had seen before. It sucked the air from him and left a hollow around his heart. It was a look of unabashed relief at seeing Sam safe. It was a look of complete love for his brother. It was a look of goodbye.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked again, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. And then on a brief exhale of air, his eyes slid shut. The shrill cry of the heart monitor drove into Sam's head like a knife.

"Dean?!" He whipped his head around to the open door. "DOC!"

WWW

_a/n: Sam's teenaged anger song was "Home" by, you guessed it. Staind. I promise that there are plans to have other musical choices in the coming two chapters. But these guys have just really worked for me in this story._

TBC very soon…


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: There are a few more Ojibwa words in this and in the next chapter translated at the end. Thanks to everyone who is reading and especially for all of the reviews. This chapter was a bit of a struggle for me because I've taken the boys to a point that I'm not sure the show would ever go – and even if it did now, they are both different people in Season 2 than they are in the time frame this story is set. So, that said, my hope is that I've stayed true enough to the characters we love with my interpretations here, and that you enjoy the journey._

_Kelly – thanks for the read… _

_www_

_The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity – WB Yeats, The Second Coming_

Ramble On – Part 7

_Sam…_

He awoke with a start, unsure how long he'd been out. He had the distinct impression that he'd heard his name… almost whispered, but it had been his name. He sat up stiffly, unfolding his arm from underneath him. His leg had begun to ache and the sun was pouring into the window in dusty beams of light. He rolled his neck, popping the joints and stretching his back. He turned his head and froze when he looked at Dean's face.

Dean's eyes were open, on him, watching. Sam's face relaxed into an immediate smile.

"Hey," he whispered.

Dean blinked and in his eyes was a look Sam had seen before. It sucked the air from him and left a hollow around his heart. It was a look of unabashed relief at seeing Sam safe. It was a look of complete love for his brother. It was a look of goodbye.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked again, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. And then on a brief exhale of air, his eyes slid shut. The shrill cry of the heart monitor drove into Sam's head like a knife.

"Dean?!" He whipped his head around to the open door. "DOC!"

It was almost as though he materialized next to Dean's bed. Sam clutched at Dean's hand, limp in his own, unaware that he was chanting _nononononono_. Josh was on Doc's heels and swiftly removed Dean's hand from his brother's, sliding Sam smoothly out of the way so that he could get on the other side of Dean. Sam held his breath. He would wait until he heard Dean breathe… until his brother was back.

Doc and Josh moved like they were in a dance. Their choreographed movements across Dean's inert body held Sam's gaze as he continued to hold his breath, waiting for Dean. Everything they did seemed to happen _at once_. Doc laid the bed flat and removed the pillows, allowing Dean's body to slump back on the bed. Josh straightened him carefully, removed the oxygen cannula and replaced it with a mask. Doc began compressions while Josh started flicking switches on a machine Sam hadn't even seen him bring in with them.

"Charging," Josh barked.

Doc nodded, but didn't stop his compressions. Sam started to see tiny black dots at the corners of his eyes. He heard another high-pitched beep and saw Josh lift the paddles from the machine, rubbing them together briskly, then shout "Clear!"

When the electrical charge slammed into Dean, his back arched from the bed and Sam jumped. His hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair, his body tense and leaning forward. The monitor did not cease its incessant scream of denial.

"Again!" Doc barked.

"Clear!"

Dean arched up again. _Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon _Sam chanted in his head. His lungs begged for the air he denied them._ No… Not until Dean was breathing again_. As Dean's back fell flat against the bed the monitor hiccuped. Three pairs of eyes flew to the TV screen, riveted as the monitor hiccuped again, and the ominous single line jumped, then jumped again, and finally began to dart into regular hills and valleys.

Sam pulled in a breath, his head swimming, his vision blurring, his own heart pounding with the relief of finally getting air. He saw Doc's shoulders sag a bit. Josh adjusted Dean's oxygen mask, and eased Dean up slightly to make sure their life saving measures hadn't pulled any of his stitches.

"Damn, kid," Doc muttered. "Not nice to do that to an old man."

"He's stabilizing," Josh said, checking Dean's vitals again.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Sam. "Sam?" He immediately moved over to the chair while Doc took over monitoring Dean. "Hey, kid, you okay?"

Sam simply blinked, unable to pull his eyes from Dean's prone form. He looked… breakable.

"He's okay, Sam," Josh said, grabbing Sam's wrist and then checking his eyes. "You're awfully pale, kiddo."

Sam blinked at the name. John used to call him that. A long time ago.

"He's okay?" Sam's voice was a weak whisper.

"Well, he's, uh," Josh frowned, looking over his shoulder at the bed. "He's back with us."

"He say anything, do anything before this happened, Sam?" Doc asked, easing the head of Dean's bed up slightly, and adjusting a pillow under his left arm to tilt his body off of the most wounded part of his back and elevate his arm.

Sam blinked from Dean's pale, still face, to Doc's dark-skinned ruddy complexion. He shook his head. "He just looked at me."

Doc lifted his eyes, his chin remaining low. "He looked at you."

Sam nodded. "He looked like… like he was saying goodbye," there were tears in his voice. He heard them. He couldn't actually tell if he were crying. He couldn't really feel anything beyond an odd weightless feeling of relief.

Doc and Josh exchanged a glance. Josh nodded and stepped away from Sam, leaving the room. Doc walked over to Sam and crouched down in front of him so that their eyes were level. Sam was once again reminded of Steven Tyler. With short hair. And glasses.

"Sam, we're gonna move a bed in here. I want you to rest. Eh – don't you shake your head at me," his eyes turned stern and he angled his head to the right. "You aren't gonna do your brother any good if you pass out on him, get me?"

Sam nodded, looking back up at Dean.

"Sam," Doc asked. "Your brother…" he sighed, looking down and Sam ducked his head to catch his eyes. "If I thought it would do any good I'd drive him to Walker myself."

"What are you saying?" Sam said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

"We've given him blood, antibiotics… we've stitched up the holes and cleaned up the bruises… his body has been pushed to the edge. If he's gonna come back to you, well, it's up to him."

Sam looked over at his brother. He'd said it before. He believed it now. "He won't give up. He doesn't know how."

Doc's generous mouth tipped down into a frown. He patted Sam's left knee. "Maybe you need to remind him."

Doc stood up and Sam caught him with a word. "Wait."

Doc looked down at him, one eyebrow raised in question.

"We – uh…" Sam swallowed. "We can't really pay you."

Doc shifted his eyes over to the still form on the bed, the monitor beeping in rhythmic reassurance that Dean was still there. "Well, we'll worry about that later." He looked up as Josh and George rolled a bed through the door and began to position it near Dean's with space enough in the middle for them to get to Dean.

Sam rolled the chair over to the foot of Dean's bed, looked at Dean's face. The drastic absence of color, the exhausted bruising under his eyes… he'd seen it before. And he'd seen his brother check himself out of a hospital looking like that. To get back to him. It seemed that was how it always was. Dean struggled to get to him. _It's the plight of family… you'll go through hell just to see them on the other side…_

"Sam," Josh stepped up beside Sam's chair as Doc finished settling Dean and left the room. "Visiting hours are over, man."

Sam shook his head once, trying to ignore the fact that his vision seemed to follow his head motion too slowly. He wasn't ready. He frowned.

"I'm not ready," he muttered.

Josh's large hand was suddenly resting on his forehead, obscuring part of his vision. As Sam sat still, his eyes on his brother, he felt something pressed into his ear, then a quick beep. He heard Josh sigh.

"Remember what I said about that infection and resting?"

Sam nodded.

"You either get into that bed right now or we'll have to take you back to the other room," Josh's voice was stern.

Sam turned his head slowly, lifting heavy eyes to Josh. Why was he so tired? Hadn't he just slept?

"What would you do that for?"

"We got more equipment in there, Sam. For when, you know, you crash like your brother just did," Josh lifted a brow.

"Huh?"

"How about you trust me on this kid. You might be able to sit up," Josh took hold of the wheelchair and turned it from Dean's bed, steering Sam the few feet over to the other bed where George waited. "You might be able to sass me, but you had a very close call that I don't think you're even aware of."

Sam's body felt heavy. The ache in his leg had increased and his head hadn't stopped spinning since he'd held his breath while Dean had been… out. He sighed and let George and Josh maneuver him from the chair back into the bed. Josh elevated his leg with several pillows and drew the blanket up to Sam's waist, then checked his vitals. He drew some clear liquid into a syringe and injected it into Sam's IV. Within minutes Sam felt the ache in his leg begin to ease, but the wispy, weightless sensation didn't go away. If anything… it seemed to increase.

"Abe told me what your brother did, kid," Josh said.

"What do you mean?"

"I know how much he means to you," Josh continued. "Just… just make sure you don't concentrate so hard on getting him back that you lose yourself."

Sam lifted surprised eyes to Josh's face. He didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't lose himself as long as he had Dean…

Josh stepped back from the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. "Your fever's back up and your heart rate is a bit fast. George will check your IVs here in a bit. I want you to rest, get me?"

"Sure," Sam shrugged, his eyes sliding over to Dean's prone form in the bed next to him.

"No. Seriously. If I come back in here in a bit and you're not asleep, I'm gonna give you something to help," Josh threatened. "Get. Me?"

Sam slid his eyes to Josh, glowering. "I get you," he said, disliking Josh's tone. He wasn't four. He was hurting, but he knew his priorities. Just like Dean's had been last night… yesterday… his whole life. "But if it's all the same to you, I'm gonna talk to my brother for a bit," he looked back to Dean. "Try to remind him of a few things."

Josh sighed and shook his head. "All right, Sam," he said. "All right."

Sam shifted slightly in the bed so that his shoulders were turned toward Dean, his head resting on his pillow. He watched Dean's chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. The oxygen mask clouded and cleared. Sam knew it was daylight outside, but he'd lost all sense of time. How long had they been in that forest? How long had his brother not slept? From the moment they hit the cave, with the few exceptions of unconsciousness, Dean had been alert, in motion, thinking, protecting, building, walking, fighting… Seeing him so still felt all levels of wrong.

"Hey, man," Sam whispered when Josh and George had left the room. He pressed his lips together in a frown. "So, uh, listen… Doc says…" Sam swallowed. _Maybe you need to remind him…_

How did he do that? How did he remind Dean who he simply was? That he was a constant, unyielding, a force of good in a world of evil… How did he tell his brother that giving up was not an option even when he'd fought so hard, done so much… even when he hurt so badly…

"Dammit, Dean, I just want you back, okay? You didn't leave me out there in that forest… you can't leave me now."

The distance between them was too much. Five feet. If he could have reached out twice as long as his arm he could grab Dean's arm, his hand, make contact. The drugs Josh gave him left his body feeling numb. All except his chest. There was a heat there, a burning that beat in time to the machine tracking Dean's heartbeat. He was just too far away…

"Sam?"

Sam shifted his eyes to the side. Abe stood in the doorway dressed in yesterday's clothes, his hands in his jean's back pockets, his shoulders up in a hesitant question.

"I don't know what to say to him," Sam confessed softly.

Abe chewed on the inside of his cheek, tilting his head to the side as he looked at Dean. "Sure you do."

Sam looked up at Abe, tears glistening in his eyes. "You know I don't have a memory before I left that doesn't include him?"

"Before you left him on the highway you mean?"

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. "What highway?"

Abe shrugged, looking over at Dean's still form. "Someplace in Indiana…something about a pagan god…"

Sam raised his brows and looked from Abe to Dean and back. "He told you about that?"

Abe looked down, his voice soft. "He thought he was talking to…"

Sam looked at Dean. "He told _Dad_ about that?" he whispered, incredulously.

"He, uh, he told me how proud he was of you," Abe said. Sam's head jerked up and Abe nodded at the question in his eyes. "He said you weren't afraid of anything. He, uh, he kinda said it like he _was _afraid…"

Sam scoffed. "Dean?" he shook his head. "He's not ---" something stopped him.

"What?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing," he looked over at Dean. "I guess I just forget sometimes."

"Forget what?"

"That he's not made of steel," Sam said.

www

Amherst, MA 1998

"_You know it's raining."_

"_Thank you Captain Obvious."_

"_Any reason we couldn't have just gotten a cab?"_

"_Yeah, about thirty of them," Dean coughed and hunched lower into his coat._

"_Can't be that expensive," Sam grumbled._

"_Whatever you say, Dude," Dean shivered once._

"_You okay, man?"_

"_Yes, Sam," Dean snapped._

"_Geeze, just askin'. Don't have to be so grumpy"_

"_Not grumpy," he said and sneezed twice into the crook of his elbow, water splashing off the end of his nose as he shook his head._

"_Sneezy then."_

"_Dude, stop naming dwarfs."_

_He shivered and hunched himself closer into his jacket. Sam reached out to steady him when he stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. He lifted his shoulder to shrug off the touch. Sam rolled his eyes but resisted the urge to simply push him back harder when saw the relief in his eyes as they reached the motel. _

"_Maybe Dad will be back," Sam said, hopefully._

"_Maybe," Dean sighed, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to fit the key into the lock with wet hands. He coughed again and Sam watched worriedly as this one shook his entire frame. _

_The key shook in his hands and Dean growled in frustration. He took a step back and set himself. Sam clued in to what he was about to do a fraction of a second before Dean's leg came up. _

"_Whoa, easy!" Sam quickly deflected his brother's kick, reached over and took the keys from his wet hands, unlocking the motel room door. _

_For a brief moment both boys held their breath, listening for the sounds of their father. When silence met their ears, they moved inside the room, removing wet clothes as they went. _

"_Go take a shower, Sammy," Dean said as he stood near the doorway prying off his dark blue hooded sweatshirt, heavy with rainwater. "It will warm you up. Just don't use all the hot water."_

_Sam was freezing from their walk in the rain. But when Dean coughed again, bent over at the waist from the force of the cough, he hesitated. He took a step toward his brother, then stopped when Dean straightened and glared at him._

"_Go, Sam," he growled, his voice rough, his eyes glittering._

_Sam turned the water on as hot as he could stand and stood under the spray until he could once again feel his hands and feet. Dad had taken the Impala when he'd left to hunt what he thought was a poltergeist. He didn't take the boys with him, saying it was a simple job and he'd be back in twenty-four hours. That had been five days ago. Sam hadn't worried until yesterday when Dean woke up coughing up a lung and Sam had seen him taking Tylenol. If Dean was taking meds, he was feeling lousy. _

_Sam stepped from the shower, sure that there was hot water left, and wrapped one of the hotel towels around his waist. They had run out of food this morning and decided they needed to make some money since they didn't know when Dad would be back. Both had fake IDs and even at fifteen, Sam could pass for twenty-one because of his size, and because Dean pulled the attention away from Sam and onto himself with a sly grin, quick-witted remark, or a coy flash of his eyes depending on the audience. They walked the five miles to the closest bar and Dean had made about two hundred dollars hustling pool. It had started raining halfway home._

_Sam stepped out into the motel room, leaving the bathroom door open behind him. As he walked to the dresser to get his clothes he eyed Dean. His brother was sitting in one of the straight-backed motel chairs next to the heater wrapped in one of the comforters from the beds. It looked like he was still in his wet jeans and T-shirt. The money he'd acquired was sitting in a soggy roll on the table. The radio on the dresser was on, and Dean was staring at it like he was reading the words to the song._

"_And yet I fight, and yet I fight, this battle all alone. No one to cry to. No place to call home."_

"_Dean," Sam called._

_Dean jerked in surprise at Sam's voice and lifted heavy eyes to him._

"_Shower's yours."_

"'_Kay," Dean said, standing slowly. The coughing fit seized him immediately and he bent at the waist reaching for the back of the chair he had just been sitting on to brace himself._

"_You okay?" Sam asked worriedly. He was suddenly unsure what he'd do if Dean were really sick. Dean never got sick; he had been plenty hurt before, but Dad had always been there. _

"_Fine, man, just a cold," he answered, dropping the comforter in a heap and heading to the shower. _

_When the door closed, Sam got dressed slowly, listening. He heard the water turn on, and listened. Dean was noisy. It was just the simple truth. The only time Sam ever saw him quiet was when he was hunting or hurt. Any other time it was almost a sign to Sam that all was right with the world when Dean was humming Metallica or Zeppelin, or pacing around the motel room as he talked, or simply making a reassuring racket. __When all he heard coming from the bathroom was the sound of the running water, he knew that Dean's 'cold' was a bit more than he was making it out to be. He set the Tylenol bottle out next to a glass of water, towel-dried his shaggy brown hair, then sat down to wait. _

_After about fifteen minutes of staring at the bathroom door, he realized that something was wrong. There was no way he'd left Dean _that_ much hot water. He walked up to the door of the bathroom, then hesitated. If nothing was wrong, Dean was going to give him hell for bursting in – and rightly so. But if something was wrong… and he didn't go in…_

"_Dean?" he called through the door. No answer. Sam steeled himself and opened the door. The water was running in the shower. Dean was sitting on the floor outside of it propped up against the wall, still in his jeans having only succeeded in removing his T-shirt, holding his head in his hands. His eyes were closed and Sam couldn't tell if he were even conscious._

"_Shit," Sam muttered and moved forward into the bathroom. _

_He reached over Dean's head and turned off the water, which was running cold by that time. He crouched in front of Dean, pressing the back of his hand to Dean's face. It was hot to the touch. _

"_Dude, what the hell 'er you doin'?" Dean snapped, lifting his head suddenly and swatting Sam's hand away._

"_I think you passed out, man," Sam said, sitting back on the floor, watching Dean slowly lift his head and stare a bit dazedly around him._

"_No way," Dean said, rubbing his head with the palm of his hand._

"_Okay, maybe you can tell me why we're on the bathroom floor, then."_

_Dean groaned and shivered. He looked over at the shower, now simply dripping intermittent splashes of water into the bottom of the shower. _

_Sam frowned. "There's no hot water left, man," he said softly._

"_Why, you use it all, Francis," Dean said, both hands on his head now, pressing into his forehead as if they were the only thing keeping it from rolling off of his shoulders and out into the main room._

"_You did, jerk, when you _passed out_," Sam said, standing up._

"_Not so loud, Sammy," Dean moaned. _

"_Here," Sam reached down for Dean's arm. "Let's get you into bed."_

"_That line just sounds wrong coming from you, dude," Dean mumbled, pushing himself up from the floor with Sam's help._

"_Just shut up and get out of those jeans," Sam said, then cringed because he could hear the running commentary in Dean's head. _

_But Dean said nothing. Once on his feet he shrugged off Sam's arm and went into the main room. He dry swallowed four Tylenol, then stripped out of his wet clothes and pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt. He turned to look at Sam._

"_We're gonna have to look for him," he sighed._

_Sam stood at the head of the bed, preparing to help Dean lay down. His head quirked to the side. "What?"_

"_It's been five days," Dean continued. "Five." He was looking in Sam's direction, but his gaze didn't quite reach Sam's. "He's not answering his cell. He hasn't called."_

Dad,_ Sam realized. He shook his head, "I'm sure he's fine, Dean."_

_At that, Dean's eyes did meet his, "Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure? You psychic?"_

_Sam shrugged. "It's Dad," he said. "We'd know if something was wrong."_

"_He's never been gone this long," Dean shook his head. "Not this long – not without word."_

"_Dean, man, you're about to fall over, will you please just lay down for awhile?"_

"_I'm fine, Sam," he answered, which Sam knew he could take as either 'no really, I am fine' or 'I'm about two seconds away from falling on my face but I'll die before I admit it'. _

_Sam took a step toward Dean and was shocked when his brother backed up a step._

"_Don't, Sam," he said. His voice was hard._

_Sam pulled his eyebrows together, confused. "Dean? What –"_

"_Just don't. I can't… not until…" Dean blinked and Sam watched as he looked toward the door. _

_Sam shook his head. "Dean, you can't just…wait… for Dad to come back before you take care of this."_

_Dean looked back at Sam, pulled the chair away from the heater and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression said 'watch me'; his body language said 'I hurt'. _

_Sam set his jaw. "Fine, you want to be a stubborn bastard? Fine!"_

_Sam sat on the bed across from him, crossing his arms in a reflection of his brother's posture and stared back. "I can do this longer than you, man," he said, his voice hard. Dean's eyebrows flickered once, his lips pressing out in an acceptance of the challenge. _

_Sam often wondered in the coming days how long they would have sat that way, staring each other down, Dean shivering from fevered chills, Sam sturdy in his self-righteousness, if John hadn't chosen that moment to walk in from the rain. The boys looked up at the door, shock giving way to worry as John stumbled in the doorway, dropping his duffel on the floor and shutting the door behind him so that he had something to lean on._

_Sam was the first on his feet. He went to his Dad and helped him sit down in a chair. Dean had started to rise, then apparently thought better of it, sitting back as an attack of shuddering coughs shook him. Sam ignored his bull-headed brother so that he could pay attention to his equally bull-headed but also bleeding father. _

"_Where?" he asked. _

"_Right side," John gasped, allowing Sam to ease his wet jacket from his body and examine the wound that sliced through John's outer shirts and into his side. _

"_Doesn't look that deep," Sam said. "Take your shirt off and I'll get the kit."_

_Sam watched as John complied, and then looked up at his eldest son. Dean blinked and tried to act as he would any other time his father returned from a hunt they hadn't been on. He began the staccato duel of sentences that passed for dialogue with them. _

"_You get it?"_

"'_Course I got it."_

"_Poltergeist?"_

"_Ugly mother, too."_

"_It do that to you?"_

"_Went through a window."_

"_Dad," Sam interrupted. "You ready?"_

_John nodded and hissed as Sam poured antiseptic over the cut, then with a glance at his Dad to make sure he was set, Sam started to sew. John clenched his jaw and groaned savagely from the pinch of the needle. By the time Sam was done covering the gash with gauze and medical tape, they were both sweating. John lifted grateful eyes to Sam, who nodded in return. _

"_Dean," John said, his voice still slightly breathy from the stitches._

"_Yeah," Dean answered, his eyes on his father, and Sam saw him try to hide a shiver._

"_You can stand down, now, Son," John said softly. _

_Sam's head snapped up and he gaped at his father. Then he slid his eyes over to Dean and was shocked to see the complete relief settle into his brother's eyes before he slid bonelessly off of the chair. _

"_Dean!" Sam moved forward to catch him, but wasn't in time. Dean landed in a heap on top of the comforter he'd wrapped himself in about an hour before._

_John stood gingerly, holding his side. "How long has he been sick?" he asked Sam as he moved over to crouch next to Dean. _

"_About two days now," Sam said, watching with fascination as John lay a gentle hand on Dean's head. "He passed out about an hour before you got home but wouldn't admit it."_

_John's mouth turned up in a rueful grin. "You can't always wear the red cape, Dude," he whispered to Dean. He lifted his dark eyes to Sam. "Help me get him up on the bed, kiddo."_

www

He couldn't seem to stay in one place. Voices followed him… talking about bears and brothers, helicopters and ambulances. When he was younger he'd slide down underneath the water in the bathtub, listening to his father and brother talk, their voices muffed, the differences between them leveled by the calming effect of the water. That is what he heard now, only… instead of warm, comforting water cradling him in safety he was wrapped in a cold blanket of needles. And they were stabbing his back, his arm, his head.

He wanted to go somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. He should have known better. The dark was never quiet. It was louder than the light. It screamed at him, beat on him. And the voices were still there. He was starting to get pissed. He didn't know who these people were, what they were saying, why they wouldn't _shut up_. If they would just leave then maybe he could get rid of the blanket of needles. Maybe he could get warm.

He couldn't breathe. He tried, but it was as if the water had turned against him, seeping into him instead of flowing around him. Then, like a bright flash in a dark room, he felt something slam into him. It felt like he'd been hit with a baseball bat while running. He wanted to hit back. To grab hold. To _stop_ it. But it came again.

_Sammy_…

Sam was talking. He could hear his voice. They hadn't lied to him. He was safe. He was okay. He wanted to call out to him – to reach back, to say he was okay, but then someone pulled the blanket of needles away from him and he could breathe again and it felt so good to just breathe… just lay still and breathe…

The voices came again, but this time they were softer, there were fewer, then there was one. Sam. Sam's voice… telling him… something. _I'm here, Sam. I'm here…_ He couldn't quite… his car? Was he talking about the Impala?

"…_I remember because you acted so funny, like you were a five year old at Christmas. But for some reason you didn't want Dad to see how excited you were. He'd been gone for a few days, but he'd left us the car. Caleb drove them on that hunt, and he said that he realized the last time he'd left us without wheels he'd actually put us in more danger. So you got the Impala for a few days, and my life was filled with Zeppelin. _

_He comes back in this ginormous black truck, tricked out for a hunter. That truck was bad-ass. But it took awhile for it to sink in for me. I mean, I was fifteen. What did I know, right? But I remember you stood so still. Like you'd turned to stone. I don't know if you were even breathing._

_And Dad looked at you. Just looked. He didn't say anything – he never really does, right? I mean, unless he's telling you what to do. I don't think the man knows how to have an actual conversation. Makes me wonder if Mom did all the talking with them. I'll bet she did. She was probably the noise in the house with them like you are with us…"_

You're rambling, Sam…

"…_sorry. I'm rambling. I'm just used to you doing most of the talking for us, Dean. See? That's why you need to just go on and wake up. Just open your eyes. Tell me to stop talking. 'Cause I can keep this up all day."_

There was a pause and Dean realized Sam was waiting. Waiting for him to do something. He focused on moving his fingers. He could feel them resting against something soft. He tried to move his toes. He felt the sheet move oh so minutely over the tops of his legs. The blanket of needles was gone, but an ache started to build as he tried to move more of his body. The harder he tried, the closer the ache, the sharper the pain.

"_Anyway. He looked at you and you stood there, and I felt like I was interrupting something. It was almost like you two were speaking telepathically. And then he tossed you the keys and you reached up and grabbed them out of the air like you had been expecting it. I think that even then I didn't realize what had just happened. Not really. Not until Dad says 'you take care of her, she'll take care of you' in that Marine-voice he always used when he wanted to, y'know, _make sure_ we were listening._

_Then he just walked inside. And you still just stood there. You didn't even go over to the car at first. I tried to get your attention, but you didn't even blink. So I punch you on the shoulder and you turned around, walked away from me, went straight to the car, got in, cranked up Back in Black so friggin' loud that neighbors looked out of their windows at us. Then you peeled out. I saw your face and, man, I don't think I have ever seen you that happy. Like. Ever._

_So, I went back inside and Dad was standing in that little kitchen, watching you through the window. He wasn't smiling, not all the way, but he looked happy. He can do that, y'know? Smile at you without _actually_ smiling. I think it throws a lot of people off. I told him that it was pretty cool what he just did. And I'll never forget this, Dean. He says 'when you give up everything for your family, you deserve to get something back'."_

_I remember I got kinda angry at that. I told him that he needed to tell you that, if that's what he thinks. And he turns to me with this look on his face… I don't know, just a look like I was just a kid and would never get it and he says, 'what do you think I just did, Sammy?'"_

Dean felt himself falling. He was so tired. He didn't want to fall, he didn't want to go back there, back to the cold. He wanted to stay here. It was warm here. Sam was here. If he could just reach out… if he could just grab hold of Sam, maybe he could stay…

"_See, the thing is, I think you need to hear it, Dean. I think that's what Dad doesn't realize. He needs to _tell_ you stuff like that. He never says…anything to you. It's like… like he looks at you like he looks at Caleb, or Pastor Jim. Like a partner. But… you're his son. And you're my brother. And you are a fighter. And you are a protector. And you are a wise-ass. And you're as annoying as hell. But… you're also a hero, man. And heroes don't quit."_

Sam's voice started to waver. Dean felt the water creep up over his ears. _Wait… wait…_

"…_because if you do…taking your car…"_

Sam's voice faded, and the water washed over him again. He let himself fall then. Sinking back into the blackness, seeking solace, seeking relief, finding neither. He waited, hoping… The voices found him again, but this time, they were clearer. Someone, someone not Sam, was saying his name.

"Dean?"

He didn't know that voice, but he'd heard it before. He'd been listening to it underwater.

"Dean, how about you open your eyes for me, Son?"

It wasn't Dad. That much he knew for sure. And it wasn't Sam… but it was familiar, comforting almost. It continued.

"I see your hands moving, Dean. Can you open your eyes now?"

His hands were moving? Oh. Yeah, cause he was reaching for Sam. He wanted Sam to know he was okay. He needed Sam to know… Where _was_ Sam? Someone else was talking… they were too far away, he couldn't hear them…

"What do I think? I think you should bring him over, that's what I think," the voice said. "I'm telling you, it will work, just do as he asks and help him, Josh."

Dean liked that tone. It sounded like Dad. It _wasn't_ him, but it sounded like him. It was an authoritative, take-no-shit tone that Dean himself had adopted at a young age.

"Hey, man." _Sam_. Dean felt the warm comfort swirl around him again, as though he were sitting up out of the water, the voices alternating between muffled and clear. "You'd better open your eyes now, Dean, because I just had to arm wrestle a Native American body builder with a tattoo the size of my head to get over here."

_Funny,_ Dean though. _You're always so serious, Sam, but that? Was funny._

"Did you see that?" Sam asked. Dean realized that Sam was talking to someone else in the room as he continued. "Did he just… smile?"

The water drifted away and there was light. Soft yellow light, easy light, seductive in its warmth. He wanted to see Sam… he had to tell him something… he had to…

"Sam," the world was a blur of soft images, of light and dark. His voice sounded odd to his ears – like sandpaper on glass.

Dean blinked and reached up with a clumsy, awkward hand to pull the oxygen mask off of his nose and mouth. His mouth was so dry. He dropped his hand and blinked his heavy eyes again, turning his head to the right when he heard "Hey, hey, Dean… you there? You with me?"

_Sammy_… "Yeah," he managed to get out. He blinked his eyes wide, trying to pull his brother into focus. Sam's head was lower than his, almost level with the bed, and he was sitting slightly sideways. "Why'r you so short, Sam?"

He heard Sam chuckle and felt something on the back of his hand… fingers, a grip. He curled his fingers around Sam's. The contact seemed to ground him like a lightening rod. Clarity snapped around certain images like static electricity while others remained unfocused. Sam was clear. His grin was clear. Dean blinked again and realized Sam was sitting in a wheelchair next to his bed.

"Y'okay, Sam?" he asked, licking his dry lips.

Dean heard a noise on the other side of the bed – it sounded like a laugh -- but he didn't look away from Sam. He was waiting for his answer. Sam pressed his lips together.

"I am now," he whispered. "It's good to have you back, man," he continued.

"Did I go somewhere?"

"Very nearly," said the voice on the other side of the bed.

Dean rolled his head and pulled his eyes to the voice. The man standing there in a red flannel shirt, long dark hair pulled back into a braid, and a silver hoop through one ear was a stranger to Dean. And yet…

"I see you decided to join us, finally," a third voice, this one at the foot of his bed. Dean shifted his eyes to that man, already tired, ready to sleep again… but he wanted to talk to Sam. He wanted to ask him where—

"Can you tell me how you're feeling, Dean?"

Dean narrowed his focus, trying to remove the blurred edges around this third man. He blinked hard, licking his lips, and unconsciously tightened his grip on Sam's fingers. He felt Sam grip back.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"How do you feel?"

How did he feel? He hurt. His arm was aching into his teeth, his back felt like someone had beat him with a rake, and his head… the beating of his heart echoed in his head.

With startling clarity, images began to slam into his head like someone was pulling the lever on a ViewMaster in his brain. He gasped and pulled his head back, trying not to succumb to the vertigo that followed. Two wendigos…Sam falling… setting Sam's leg… building the travois… the markings on the cave wall… the carnage of the wolf… fighting the second wendigo… that word… hearing it speak… and… someone coming…

"Dean, man," Sam said, his hand now on Dean's arm. "What is it?"

Dean lifted shattered hazel eyes to his brother's face. "We made it, Sam."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, we did."

Dean reached up and pulled at the oxygen mask, wanting it off of his face.

"Eh, wait," said the man at the end of the bed. "Not so fast," he continued. "You thirsty?"

Dean nodded, then instantly regretted it. He closed his eyes willing the world to settle back into place so that he didn't fall off the side. The man in the red flannel shirt handed him a plastic cup of water with a straw. Dean tried to grip the cup, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't get the straw to his mouth.

"Here," Sam said, balancing the cup for him so that he could get some water. When he'd drank his fill, Sam took the cup from him and set it beside the bed. The water helped complete what Sam's grip had started. He felt more alert, awake. He wanted to talk to Sam.

"Dean," the man at the end of the bed spoke again. "How do you –"

"Like I hit a wall then wrestled a wendigo," Dean interrupted, his voice still rough, but now more firm. His eyes were bright and on the man standing at the foot of the bed.

The man lifted an eyebrow. "You know what day it is?"

Dean paused. "Not really."

"You know where you are?"

Dean blinked. "No, but I could tell you all the words to _Sweet Emotion_, if that would help."

Sam chuckled. Dean slid his eyes to Sam, his eyebrows quirking. Sam pressed his lips together in a smile and nodded back at his brother.

"What did I miss?"

"Don't worry about it, Doc," said the man in the red flannel shirt, also smiling.

Doc shook his head, then stepped around the bed. He quickly checked Dean's vitals, then removed the oxygen mask and replaced it with the nasal cannula. He set Dean's chart behind him, then crossed his arms, looking down at Dean.

"Well, it's good that you're awake. Don't know that this kid brother of yours could take another day watching you sleep," Doc sighed.

Dean felt Sam's fingers flex. He carefully moved his hand from Sam's grip as he looked at Doc, unwilling for it to seem like a movement of separation from Sam, but needing to see if he could balance on his own. Oddly enough, without Sam's touch his head seemed to swim. He blinked a few more times, trying to focus on what Doc was saying, but the rushing of blood in his ears prevented him from hearing anything else. He could feel his breathing increase, unable to calm himself. He clenched his jaw, angry at his weakness.

Then it all just stopped. Just stopped. His mouth fell open and he breathed in relief. He leaned his head back into the pillow and only then realized that Sam had laid his hand on his arm. _God, don't let go, Sammy…_

"…since infection had set in."

"Sorry, what?" Dean muttered.

"Did you hear any of that, Dean?" Doc asked, peering closely at him.

"Not really," the sudden clarity that he'd noticed just moments ago was wearing off and utter weariness began to seep in.

"You've been out for nearly three days, Dean," the man in the red flannel shirt said.

At that Dean's eyebrows went up in a tired imitation of surprise. He looked over at Sam. He could now see that Sam's right leg was encased in a blue Velcro soft-cast. His brother looked worn, thin, but none of the weariness Dean read on his face and in his body reflected in his eyes. In there Dean only saw relief.

"What about you?" he asked Sam.

"Three pins in my leg, Dude," Sam said, a sideways grin tugging at his mouth.

"Good thing we don't fly," Dean quipped. "You'd be setting off those metal detectors."

"Yep. Good thing."

Doc moved away from Dean's bed, herding the man in the red flannel shirt in front of him.

"Sam," he said, stepping over to Sam's chair. "Your brother needs to rest and so do you."

Sam shook his head once. "I'm good."

"Sam, you'll be right over–"

Sam turned and looked at Doc, his voice hard, the hand on Dean's arm tense. "I said I'm good."

Dean listened to the authority in Sam's voice with admiration as he watched the man in the red flannel shirt look at Sam, nod, then usher Doc out of the room in front of him. Dean was glad that they were gone. He knew that they had probably saved his life. Knew he should be grateful… but for the moment he just wanted to _be_.

"Sam, where's Dad?"

He shifted carefully on the bed, trying to move the pillow that was at his back lower so that he could see Sam better. He couldn't move much without pulling at his stitches. And moving his left arm at all, he quickly realized, was_ not_ advised.

Sam turned his head very slowly to look at him. Dean blinked at him, waiting. Sam licked his lips and took a breath. If Dean didn't know better, he would have thought Sam was about to tell him… _oh, God, no_…

"Sam," he said in a choked voice. "Did something happen? Where is he?"

"Dean…"

"Is he okay?"

Sam sighed, looking down at his hand on Dean's arm. "As far as I know," he answered softly.

Dean pulled his eyebrows together in confusion. "What the hell is that supposed to mean."

Sam looked up and the expression in his eyes jolted Dean. It was as if Sam were suddenly seeing a _person_ where he'd always seen a _hero_. Dean felt stripped bare, laid open. His mask was gone, his wall transparent. He wanted to look away, but Sam's eyes held him. He felt a tremble in his chest, a shiver from the inside out.

"Dean, Dad didn't come."

"What?"

"Dad didn't come for us, man. He was never here."

Dean pulled his head back into the pillow, an automatic refusal of information, a retreat from the truth. "What are you talking about, Sam. He _saved_ you."

"_You_ saved me, Dean."

Dean shook his head. "No… no way, Sam. I couldn't. I remember that much. I couldn't… I couldn't get up even."

"Yeah, and then Abe found us…"

Dean shifted. "Who the hell is Abe?"

"Abe was just in here, with Doc."

Something caught in Dean's chest. A hitch in his breath. A skip of his heart. The man in the red flannel shirt. The familiar voice. The word 'Son'. Dean pulled his arm away from Sam and again felt the vertigo grab hold without the contact of Sam's fingers. He ignored it – no, he used it. He allowed the swaying room to give him permission to close his eyes, close out Sam. He tipped his head back against the pillows. The darkness seemed to cancel out the dizziness, and in a few moments he was able to open his eyes.

Sam sat completely still. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide, his bottom lip caught in his teeth. Dean had seen this look before – in the forest, when they fought the wendigo. Sam had been in such pain then that Dean had felt it just looking at him. He felt it pour off of him now, just as before, but it came from a different place this time.

"You're wrong," Dean said, surprised by the venom he heard in his own voice. It sounded stronger than he felt.

"No, Dean."

"He was _here_ Sam," Dean said, his voice rising. The tremble in his chest increased. "I saw him, man, I talked to him, hell I _touched_ him!"

"It was Abe," Sam repeated.

"Stop saying that," Dean yelled. "Just stop it, Sam."

"Why would I lie to you, man?" Sam asked, his voice rising to match Dean's. "You think I _wanted _to tell you this? You think I didn't want it to true?"

Dean clenched his jaw and looked at Sam, deadening his voice, his eyes. "Yeah, Sam, I do."

"Why?" Sam yelled, his face flinching with emotion. "Why, Dean?"

"So you could live in that fucking world where Dad is the reason for all the bad things that've happened to you! 'Cause it's easier for you to stay mad at him!" Dean's jaw was brittle, his eyes hot with anger. The monitor began to increase its rhythm, but neither brother took notice.

"What?!"

The trembling in Dean's chest blossomed out so that it spread to his hands. He tightened them into fists, but fighting it only made it worse and he saw Sam's eyes flick from his hands to his face. A softening started to creep into his eyes, but Dean wasn't finished.

"You _want_ to be mad at him. It's safe for you—" Dean continued, his voice raw from emotion and yelling, harsh breaths punctuating every other word.

"That's not fair," Sam yelled, watching his brother's jaw tremble.

"—because then you don't have to admit what he's sacrificed for us, for _you_—"

"You don't mean this, Dean," Sam's voice dropped an octave.

"—what he put himself through to get us to where we are, keep us together as a family, keep us safe—"

"You did that," Sam's voice was barely above a whisper, but it stopped Dean.

He lay his head back on the pillow, his body trembling visibly, the heart monitor keeping a double-time rhythm, his eyes fragile in their betrayed anger. "What?"

"You did that, Dean, not Dad," Sam repeated softly. "In my eyes, it was you. It's always you."

"Sam," Dean breathed out, his voice tight, near breaking. "Please. Did he just leave? Just… tell me…"

Sam's lips twisted and his eyes flashed bright with instant tears. "I told you, man. He didn't come. He was never here," he pressed his lips together, forcing back the emotion. "I called him yesterday when you wouldn't wake up. He didn't answer."

Dean closed his eyes. He was never there. He didn't come. Dean didn't know what to do with that. He felt Sam's fingers brush his arm as he reached out to comfort him, but he pulled his arm away. He didn't deserve comforting. He'd lost it out there. He'd put Sam's life in the hands of a stranger.

"Jesus, Sammy," he breathed, not opening his eyes. "I could have gotten you killed."

"What?"

"I screwed up… I could have… " his voice cracked, and he pressed his lips together as the tremble in his body tried to sneak out as a whimper of defeat.

He heard Sam growl, but it was more a low keen of pain than of anger. He didn't look at him. He couldn't. He felt dizzy behind his closed eyes. His chest trembled mightily and he couldn't pull in a deep enough breath. He had been so sure… it had _felt_ like Dad. And it had felt so good to have him there, to let him lead, to give over the responsibility for just a moment. For that night, Sam's life wasn't just in his hands… Dad was there. But none of it had been real. And he could have gotten Sam killed.

"Dean, you did _not_ screw up," Sam said, his voice tight.

"Just… leave me alone, Sam," Dean said, his voice dead. He wanted to roll away from the feeling of his brother's eyes on him. He wanted to curl up into himself, but he hurt… everything ached. He needed to regroup, get a grip, but his balance was off and he was slipping toward an edge that he couldn't let himself go over. He'd been to that other side. He didn't like what he saw there.

"I'm not leaving, man," Sam's voice was hard, and this time when he reached out for Dean, he didn't let Dean pull away. His long fingers wrapped around Dean's forearm, gripping him, holding him the only way Dean would allow.

Dean felt the panic begin to seep away the instant Sam's hand touched him. He kept his eyes closed, but he heard the rhythm of the heart monitor slow, and he felt his breathing begin to even out. Why did contact with Sam do that to him? Balance him? Bring him back from the darkness? He should be the one doing that for Sam, not the other way around…

"Dean, don't… Man, don't shut me out," Dean heard tears in Sam's voice and he tightened his jaw. "Not now, not after… after all of this."

Dean opened his eyes, but didn't look at Sam. He didn't move. He barely breathed.

"I thought," Sam paused. Dean heard him take a breath and felt his fingers tighten on his arm. "I really thought we were going to…" he stopped again, and this time Dean turned his head to look at him.

Sam's eyes were down, his shoulders trembled. Dean stayed silent, watching Sam gather himself. When his brother lifted his eyes, Dean saw something there that he never thought he'd see in Sam: fear.

"Sammy, what…"

"You pushed yourself to the point of death, man. You don't even know it, do you? You almost died on me, Dean. Again. And I… I can't… _you_ can't…"

Sam gripped his right arm with desperate fingers. Dean carefully eased his aching left arm across his body and curled his fingers in Sam's shirt. Tears glistened in Sam's eyes but didn't fall. His throat worked against the emotion, and he pressed lips together, desperate to maintain control.

"You scared me, man," he confessed.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean whispered.

"Dean, you have to understand," Sam said. "Out there, I needed _you_. Not Dad."

Dean let his left arm fall, unable to hold it up. His hand dropped across his chest and he leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. _But I did, Sam… I needed him…_

"He really didn't come, huh?"

Sam shook his head. Dean pressed his lips together, holding in the scream of frustrated rage that was suddenly just below the surface. Rage at himself, at his father, at this life, at his weakness, at his own inability to save Sam, at the evil they were _constantly_ at war with… He didn't realize that he'd stopped breathing until Sam gripped his arm with a worried "Dean?" He filled his lungs.

"_Nij_," came a voice from behind them that sounded like the slow creak of a door in desperate need of oil. Dean saw Sam's head rotate to the sound. "_Seyenz."_

Sam's head whipped back to Dean's and met his eyes, wide with surprise. "Isn't that…"

Dean nodded. They peered back at the doorway. Doc stood off to the side, presumably coming to check on the erratic beeping of the heart monitor attached to Dean's chest. Dean wondered how much of their conversation he'd been a silent witness to. Abe stood next to him, holding the elbow of a stooped man. The face of the third man was weathered and worn, his eyes were milky-white with cataracts, his lips folded in over toothless gums. His hair was white and long, hanging over his bent shoulders and down his curved back.

"Mark," Abe called. "Get a chair."

Dean and Sam sat silently, staring. Mark brought a chair, sat it near Sam's wheelchair.

"_Nibi_," the man said to Mark, who left and returned quickly with a glass of water.

"Abe, I told you about him," Doc was saying. Abe calmly ignored his protest and stepped up next to the chair.

"Dean, Sam," he nodded at each. "This is Running Horse. He is the tribal shaman."

"These boys need their rest," Doc broke in. "Their bodies have –"

Abe turned and looked at Doc over his shoulder, interrupting him. "All due respect, Doc, but there are some things that can't be healed by your medicine."

Dean's eyebrows went up, recognizing the tone. His father's tone. He looked closely at Abe, at the silver earring… he remembered… walking… following the travois, watching Sam, then blackness… and waking to see a face, dark eyes, black hair and that silver earring. He blinked, carefully rubbing the bandage over the gash on his head with his left hand. He'd _known_. For an instant that night, he'd known it wasn't Dad…

"Abe, a shaman? After what these boys have been through?" Doc shook his head.

"_Because_ of what they've been through," Abe answered, turning back to the brothers. "I think there's something you need to hear."

Running Horse turned his unseeing eyes toward Doc. "_Nagazh_."

With a low murmur of discontent, Doc left the room. Abe rested a hand on Running Horse's shoulder, whispering, "_Migwetch_."

"Abe," Sam said, staring at the shaman with open curiosity, his fingers still wrapped around Dean's arm, "no offense, man, but, uh, what does your tribal shaman have to do with Dean and me?"

Abe stood. "Well, for one thing," he shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "You killed his brother."

WWW

_a/n: Nij – two, seyenz – brother, nibi – water, nagazh – leave, migwetch – thank you_

_Song on the radio in the Amherst hotel room was "Nutshell" by Alice in Chains._

TBC…


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer/Spoilers/All That Jazz: **See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Shaman: A guide, a healer, a source of social connection, a maintainer of the group's myths and concept of the world. It is the person, man or woman, who experiences, absorbs, and communicates a special form of healing power. (The Cambridge Encyclopedia, 1990)._

_Kelly – thanks for sticking with me._

_www_

_We have met the enemy, and he is us. -- Walt Kelly_

Ramble On – Part 8

Abe watched as Dean jerked back slightly and Sam's fingers tightened on his brother's arm. He knew his words would have an impact on them, but he also suspected that on some level they'd known. If not that the wendigo had been the shaman's brother, at least that he had not completely been the beast.

Dean dragged in a breath and Abe's eyes flicked up to the TV screen where the lines of his life were measured. A couple bounced shakily then smoothed out. Sam kept his eyes on Abe, but Abe could see his awareness of his brother. It was in his posture, the lines of his face, the grip of his fingers.

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" he said, his voice a perfect imitation of Dean's stubborn demand for the truth just moments ago.

"I'll let Running Horse explain," Abe said. He saw Dean's eyebrow flicker up, and he continued. "I'll translate."

Dean simply blinked at him, his eyes weary, his face pale. He lay at the awkward angle Doc had positioned him in to ease the pressure on his wounded back, his left arm laying limp across his body. He had fisted the sheets in his right hand, and held that arm very still so that Sam's hand didn't slide away.

Sam shifted slightly in the wheelchair, reaching down to rub the top part of his right leg – the only place he could reach. "Well, go on then."

Running Horse heard his cue and began speaking in a low, rhythmic voice. Abe had always found his cadence to be relaxing, almost hypnotic. But he knew that the brothers would have to hear the truth, so he raised the tone of his voice to the near-barking, authoritative tone he'd witnessed Dean react to. If Dean responded, he knew Sam would follow suit.

"_Many years ago… I am an old man, I do not know the year… I fell and broke my neck. My brother was a grown man then, and learning the ways of the tribal shaman. It was the summer when many of the young men of our tribe left to fight in the Great War. The first of many… My brother did not leave. He was old enough to marry, to start a family, but he had me to care for. Our mother had died when I was very young. Our father had left the tribe long before that summer…" _

Abe paused and left Running Horse take a drink of water. He kept his eyes on the brothers. Dean's head had sunk back into the pillow and if possible, he'd grown paler. Sam's jaw was hard, the muscle on the sides jumping as his dark eyes stayed pinned to Running Horse, looking both fearful and curious to hear his next words.

"_I knew I was going to die. I felt my body grow cold. I felt myself falling and flying at the same time. I looked to see the Spirit Horse come to me. I looked for my mother. But then I saw my brother's face, and the look in his eyes… he was going to save me, he said. He knew how to save me. He began speaking words… I had never heard these words before… he touched the break, and the pain grew…"_

Running Horse paused when they heard the heart monitor jump again. Sam and Abe both looked to Dean, who simply shook his head. Abe could see his chest rising and falling in an increasing rhythm.

"Dean?" Sam asked, an entire conversation of care spoken through one word.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean asked, but Abe heard the weakness in his voice.

"We can come back –" he started.

"No," Dean interrupted, trying to control his breathing. "No, we gotta know."

"_The pain grew until I could no longer see, no longer hear… but I could feel my brother. I could feel his hands. Then, as if it had never been there, the pain was gone. I could move my body. I could breath. My brother was beyond happy. He was determined to learn all the tribal shaman could teach him. Past healing. Past spirit-walking. Past enlightenment. He said he wanted to find a way to keep us safe… so that we would never die… but everything dies. It is the balance of the universe. He could not accept this balance."_

"_His hunger for knowledge increased and I grew afraid of him. This took many years… but when I was old enough to marry, I could not bear to be near my brother… though I loved him more than my life. One night, fearing for him because of the voices speaking in my dreams, I followed him to the cave. I witnessed there a horror that changed my heart…"_

Abe heard Sam make a small sound in the back of his throat. He looked at him. Sam's eyes were on Running Horse. They were dark pools of worry and weariness. Dean didn't look at his brother, but he fisted his right hand tighter, so that the muscles bunched under his brother's hand.

"Easy, Sam," Dean said in a low, calming voice.

"Dean –"

"It's not the same," he whispered again. Sam turned his head slightly so that he could see Dean out of the corners of his eyes. "It's not the same as us," Dean repeated, his voice still soft, but the edge to it said _believe me_.

"_My brother had learned of an ancient power, one that shaman do not speak of, one that was discovered in darkness and led to darkness. By eating the flesh of one with power, he would absorb that power and with it, immortality. I now know he believed he could save us, save me, from any harm. He had killed the tribal shaman and as I watched, he consumed him. The blood ran from his mouth, down his chest, his eyes were no longer the eyes of my brother, the sounds coming from the cave were wild, animal-like, and terrifying."_

"_I returned during the day, having studied the shaman's magic enough to try to understand my brother. I marked the cave wall with stain made of blood, herbs, and tree sap. I marked it in the form of a pentagram to keep the evil away from the tribe. I used the earth as the barrier. And I kept him in there. Alive, but not living. Increasing his hate. Increasing his blood lust. Killing his soul. Saving my people."_

"The protection charm was broken," Sam said, his voice rough. "When we found it, a piece was missing."

Abe nodded. "When you said that there had been two creatures, I went to Running Horse. He didn't know of a second. Near as we can figure, it was the second wendigo that freed his brother."

"Why didn't you kill him," Dean asked, his voice sandpaper-rough, his eyes on Running Horse.

Abe started to translate, but stopped when he realized that Running Horse had been waiting for this question. The old man seemed to sag slightly in the chair, his face downcast. He said something in a voice that reminded Abe just how old this man was. It sounded like empty tree branches rubbing together in the wind.

"_Because he was my brother."_

"No he wasn't," Dean argued, his breaths coming in quick pants. The beep of the monitor increased, and Sam turned to him. "Not anymore. He was evil. And you knew it. And you allowed… you…"

"Dean? Hey," Sam said, his grip tightening visibly on Dean's arm.

Dean's face matched the pillow he lay against, the only color coming from his dark-blonde hair and the sooty lashes that brushed his cheeks as his eyes fluttered closed once. He forced them open, the flash of green Abe saw almost lit from within.

"Hey, Doc," Abe called.

Dean kept his eyes on Running Horse, his voice weak but accusatory. "You let evil live. And people died."

"_He was my brother."_

Abe heard a noise from Dean then. An almost keening growl. He looked at the boy's face. Dean's eyes were closed, his lips pressed together as though holding back a silent scream. Abe saw the muscle in his jaw jump and once again his heart went out to him. Stepping away from Running Horse he moved towards Dean's bed. Thinking to help ease him into a more comfortable position, he carefully grasp Dean's left arm and tried to move it back on the pillow. He mirrored Sam's jerk of surprise when Dean cried out.

"Dean?!" Sam said, leaning forward, hampered by his leg and the chair.

Dean's head was pressed back into the pillow and he was breathing through clenched teeth. Abe let go of his arm and stepped back as Doc appeared in the room, moving up next to the side of Dean's bed where Abe stood. He checked the read-out on the monitor, then as though he didn't believe it, he put his stethoscope in his ears, listening to Dean's heart.

"Dean," Doc called, pulling open his right eye and shining a light in it. Abe could see his pupil react from the angle where he stood at the edge of the bed. Dean didn't respond. From what Abe could see, he seemed to be concentrating on breathing, as though that simple, natural action had become a monumental effort.

"What's wrong with him?" Sam asked, his voice trembling. Abe heard the youth in that voice. The little brother. The need to be reassured that he wasn't going to lose his hero.

Doc shook his head. "This is what I was trying to tell you boys earlier," he said, tilting the bed slightly lower and adjusting the pillow at Dean's back so that he could look at the dressing there. "The infection that set in to his arm isn't abating with the antibiotics. And now," he said, peering under the bandages at Dean's back, "it looks like his back—"

"Right here, people," Dean ground out.

"Dean," Sam leaned as close as his wheelchair would allow. "What's wrong? What hurts?"

"God, Sam," Dean groaned. "Arm… just… cut it off or something."

Sam lifted his eyes to Doc's. "Isn't there anything else you can try?"

Doc's generous mouth was pressed into a thin line. He was staring at Dean's profile with narrowed eyes. Then, like a light bulb had literally gone off in his head, he turned and left the room.

"He's got an idea, Dean, okay? Just… just hang on," Sam said, leaning close again.

"Don't let go'ame, Sam," Dean whispered.

"What?"

"Don't let go… I'll fall if you let go," Dean's voice was so low Abe could barely hear him.

But as Abe made out the words, his worry increased. Just listening to their conversation earlier, he knew that Dean would never have admitted to such a thing if he'd been completely coherent. His need for Sam he saw as a weakness. That much Abe had seen when, upon realizing that his Dad hadn't come for them, the first thing Dean did was berate himself for putting Sam's life in danger.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam whispered, reaching over with his other hand to cover Dean's fist.

Doc blurred back into the room, moving with more speed and grace than Abe gave the big man credit for. When a life was in the balance, Doc was a man on a mission. He carefully moved behind Sam's chair, hooking a different IV bag up to the pole next to Dean's bed. Without moving Sam's hands away from his brother, he exchanged the line that fed into the catheter on Dean's arm. Next he filled a syringe with a clear liquid and hovered over the port.

"Dean," Doc said. Dean grunted once in response. "I'm going to give you something for the pain. It might make you sleepy, but you need to rest. I'm trying a stronger antibiotic to kick this infection in your arm, okay?"

"Sam?" Dean whispered through frozen lips.

"I'm not going anywhere, man."

"'Kay," Dean said to Doc. Doc pushed the painkiller into the IV, and as they watched, within minutes Dean visibly relaxed.

The hurried beep of the monitor smoothed out and returned to a normal rhythm. Abe watched Dean's fisted fingers relax under Sam's hand. Sam moved that hand away, but kept his fingers wrapped around Dean's right forearm.

"Dean?" he called, checking. His brother didn't respond. His face was still lined with pain, but his breathing had evened out. Abe watched as Doc lifted his eyelid, checking. He pulled back, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"He's out, Sam."

Sam looked up. "_Might_ make him sleepy?" he asked.

"Well, if I told him that I was going to knock him out, what do you think he'd do?"

Sam looked back at Dean. "Tell you to go to hell."

"Exactly," Doc sighed. "It was a good sign that he woke up on his own, but…"

"What?" Abe asked.

"I can't get that infection under control. It's almost like… like it comes in waves. Which is not how the body works," Doc shook his head.

Running Horse spoke up. Doc lifted his head, then shook it once, denying the old man's words.

"What?" Sam asked. "What did he say?"

Abe sighed tiredly. "He said that it isn't infection. It's poison."

"My ass," Doc growled. "This boy hasn't been poisoned, he was injured. His cuts are infected."

Abe pushed his hands into his back jeans pockets. "Doc, listen," he began, his voice a slow, measured beat of reason. "You said it yourself – the infection came from the bacteria on the creature's claws. What if Running Horse has a point? What if that… bacteria is poisoning him?"

Doc lifted his eyes to Sam, studying him, questions in his eyes. Abe watched Sam stare back. It was almost as if he were witnessing a battle of wills. And he was amazed when Doc was the one to look away.

"It never touched me, Doc," Sam said. "I'm not infected because it never touched me."

"And why is that," Doc said, his eyes now on Dean's face. "You were practically helpless out there. It should have torn you to shreds."

"Well, I shot the first one... after it threw Dean into the wall. And with the second, well, Dean wouldn't let it," Sam shrugged. "Plus," he looked over at Running Horse. "He copied the protection charm on the canvas."

Doc looked up at Abe. "Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "Saw that."

Abe lifted a shoulder. "The shaman magic protected his brother. Why couldn't it heal him?"

Doc studied Abe longer and Abe felt like he was disappearing under the intense gaze. He thought for a moment that they had him convinced, but then his eyes clouded once more and he shook his head.

"These antibiotics will work," he said, decisively. "I'm sure of it."

"I can't afford for you to be wrong," Sam said, his eyes hard.

"Sam, you need to rest," Doc said, completely ignoring Sam's trembling confession. "Let me get Josh to help you back to bed."

"Doc –"

"Kid, I will _not_ have two lives on my conscience," he growled and stormed out of the room.

Abe felt himself grow cold at those words, and looked at Sam. Sam's face was pale under his mop of shaggy brown hair, his jaw trembling as he looked after Doc's retreating form. After a moment he looked over at Running Horse.

As if feeling his gaze, Running Horse murmured, "_Seyenz._" He lifted a shoulder in apology.

Sam pressed his lips together, then nodded. "I know. I couldn't have done it either," he whispered.

When Josh came in to help Sam into the bed, Abe called for Mark.

"Mark, you and Brian help Running Horse get back to his house," he ordered.

"Where are you going?" Mark asked.

"I'm staying here with them," Abe jerked his head over his shoulder at the brothers. "But, uh, Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay close, huh? I don't think this is over," Abe sighed, resting a heavy hand on Running Horse's shoulder.

As the late afternoon sun waned in its travel through the windows of Dean's room, Sam lay sideways in his bed, his eyes on his brother, his right leg propped on pillows. Abe sat in the chair Running Horse had vacated, watching Sam watching Dean.

"I think he learns by teaching," Sam suddenly said. Abe jumped slightly at the unexpected sound of his voice.

"Huh?"

"Well, our Dad, he, uh, he kept this… journal. A way of keeping track of everything he hunted," Sam said, his eyes flicking from Dean to Abe, then back again.

"Things like… like demons and werewolves?" Abe asked, hesitantly, afraid for the answer.

"Among other things," Sam nodded. "Dean tell you that?"

"Not exactly," Abe shifted. "I mean, he told your Dad that he'd been hurt worse when I wanted to leave one of you behind… he insisted that he walk."

Sam nodded, still looking at Dean.

"He, uh, he mentioned a werewolf," Abe said.

Sam snorted, "Which one?"

Abe swallowed hard, a chill shivering down his spine. There had been more than one? "I can't believe how you two have grown up," he whispered.

"It's a long story," Sam said, "but you found out about the wendigo all on your own, so you know I'm not making it up."

"Unfortunately."

Sam pulled his bottom lip in. "I've never known anything else. Dean, he uh, he had normal until he was four," he shifted and looked up at the ceiling, his face dark, his eyes haunted. "I'm not sure which way is worse."

"What happened when he was four?"

"A demon killed our mom," Sam said, his voice crackling over the words like wrinkled paper.

Abe felt the cold chill again. Watching Sam's face he realized he was losing him to memories. "So this journal?" he asked, pulling him back.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, still looking at the ceiling. "Dad has everything in that. History, ways of killing, protection, exorcisms, the works." He shifted his eyes back over to Dean. "Dean knew we'd have to learn it. So instead of helping me with ABC's, he had me copy stuff out of Dad's journal. It's how he taught me to write."

Abe looked from Sam over to the still body in the other bed. That night in the woods he'd felt from Dean such devotion to his brother, such respect for his father. The more he learned about him, the more confusing he became. It seemed he was such a cornerstone in this family. And yet… and yet it was as though he were invisible at the same time. He was gravity. Needed, depended upon, and unseen.

"Pretty smart," Abe said, thinking about the boys' writing lessons.

"Well, yeah, until I got into kindergarten," Sam said with a grin. "Dad had some serious explaining to do."

Abe chuckled. "I'll bet."

Doc ducked in and checked on Dean, his face impassible. He didn't look at Abe, but went over to Sam. He listened to his heart, his lungs, took his pulse, checked his temperature.

"You're doing better, Sam," Doc said. "But I still don't like your color. You need to rest."

"I'll stay, Sam," Abe offered as Sam opened his mouth in protest. Doc did look at him, then, as if surprised by his dedication. "I'll keep an eye on him. I won't let you sleep through something important."

Sam lifted one corner of his mouth in surprised gratitude. "Thanks, man."

Abe lifted a shoulder, then looked at Doc, challenging him to deny him this. _I pulled them out of the woods, old man. Just try to kick me out._

Doc pressed his lips together in a line of defeat. "Fine. Call me if something changes," he said, looking over his shoulder at Dean. "I'll be right outside."

"You got it," Abe nodded.

Darkness settled over the little room as the sun rolled slowly under the earth. Sam fell into a restful sleep minutes after Doc left the room, proving to Abe how tenuous his own recovery was. He had as much determination to keep his brother with him as Dean had displayed in the woods. Abe adjusted himself in the chair, rolling his tired neck. The sounds of the monitor, the heating ducts, the boys' breathing began to lull him into a sleeping awareness.

The nightmare began for both almost at the same time. Abe blinked awake, unsure how long he'd been asleep. The first thing he heard was a quickening of the heart monitor. Then he heard Sam thrash once in his bed. Next a low cry from Dean. He stood, between the beds, unsure what was happening, who to go to.

Sam solved that problem. He sat up abruptly, sweat causing his hair to stick in clumps to his face, his lungs fighting for air.

"Dean!"

"What, what is it?!" Abe stepped over to him, grasping his shoulders.

"He's… he's caught…" Sam said, pushing Abe away and trying to shove his covers down off of his leg.

"He's what?" Abe looked over at the form on the bed. The monitor had picked up a double-time rhythm and Dean's face was fisted in pain. He pressed his head back into the pillow and his legs twitched as though he were struggling… or… running.

"Sam, whoa, hey, what are you –" Abe tried to stop Sam from swinging his leg over the bed. Sam pushed Abe away again and reached for the arm of the wheelchair.

"He's caught. I saw him… his dream," Sam was panting from the effects of his dream and trying to get his body from the bed to the chair. He jarred his leg and winced.

"What? How?"

"Don't ask me stupid questions, just help me or get out of my way," Sam barked.

Abe really had no choice. Sam was getting into that chair. Abe helped to balance him, and lifted the leg rest for his right leg. He pushed him the few feet over to Dean's bed, and then turned to call for Doc as Sam grasped Dean's arm.

"Hey, hey," Sam whispered, his fingers wrapping around the tight muscles on Dean's arm, his brother's fist bunched into the sheets. "I'm here, Dean…"

Doc was standing in the doorway when Abe turned.

"How longs he been like this?"

"Just a few minutes, I think."

"What do you mean _you think_," Doc barked as he moved over to Dean's quaking body.

"I fell asleep," Abe said, apologetically.

"You fell _asleep_?" Doc looked up at him.

"What do you want from me?" Abe yelled back.

"Hey!" Sam said, pulling their eyes to him. "Do we have to do this now?!"

Doc shook himself and started checking Dean.

"What's the matter with him, Doc?" Sam asked.

"I think he's… having some sort of a… seizure," Doc answered hesitantly. "But it's not presenting as…"

"He's dreaming," Sam said.

"How do you know?"

"I saw it," he repeated. "And _no_ I don't know how, I just did. He's trapped in the cave... as the wendigo – the second one… the one that talked."

"What do you mean as --" Abe started.

"He's dreaming that he's the creature!" Sam snapped, his eyes flashing from Dean to Abe, then back again.

Dean's head jerked back and forth and he tried to move his left arm, but the real pain stopped the dream motion. Abe watched as Sam scrunched his face in sympathetic pain, keeping one hand on Dean's arm and putting the other one on top of his brother's head, his thumb carefully smoothing the lines of pain across Dean's forehead.

"Doc," Abe said. "You have to let Running Horse try."

Sam ignored him, but Doc lifted his head. "It's not going to work, Abe."

"Nothing else has either," Abe shot back.

Doc sighed, looked down at the brothers, then nodded. "Fine."

"Mark!"

Mark appeared instantly in the doorway. "He never left, Abe," he said.

"What?"

"Running Horse. He never left."

"Well, get him in here, then!"

Mark left the doorway and returned in minutes with Running Horse at his side. The old shaman moved quickly despite his stooped carriage and sightless eyes. Mark and Abe maneuvered him in front of Doc, on Dean's left side. Running Horse looked at Sam.

"_Onik," _he said. He continued, his brows pulled together, his expression fierce. Sam shot his eyes up to Abe.

"Don't let go of his arm, Sam," Abe said in a low, commanding tone. "You hang onto him no matter what, okay?"

Sam clenched his jaw and nodded, his fingers gripping Dean's muscle-corded arm tighter.

Running Horse lay a hand on Dean's bandaged arm. Abe's gut clenched at the wounded sound that came from Dean's throat at that touch. Doc started to go forward, his instinct as always to stop pain, but he hesitated. Running Horse's voice began as a low chant, almost a song. Abe opened his mouth to translate but realized he couldn't. He couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. The energy in the room was similar to what he'd felt from Sam in the woods. He was held fast, a motionless witness to the coming moments.

Sam began to tremble with Running Horse's words. He kept his eyes on Dean's face, his hand on his brother's arm, but he was not unaffected by the energy. He was fighting it, pushing it back to Running Horse, pushing it into Dean. Running Horse's words increased in volume, then hit a cadence that would have made Abe jump if he could move.

Dean gasped, a rattling wet sound. He was sweating, rivulets of moisture running down the sides of his face. His jaw clenched and his head pressed back into the pillow. As Running Horse increased his chant his back arched up from the bed, the muscles in his stomach bunched, his right fist pressed into the bed, his left arm trembling violently. Just as Abe thought Dean would actually snap from the visible tension in his body, he opened his mouth and let out a cry.

The sound made Sam gasp. Abe saw him wince as though contact with his brother was painful, as though whatever Running Horse was doing to Dean was traveling through his wounded body and into Sam. _Don't let go… I'll fall if you let go…_ Abe heard those words again with new meaning. _Hang on, kid_, he silently conveyed to Sam. Sam groaned low in the back of his throat and clenched his eyes against a pain Abe wasn't able to imagine.

Dean's cry came again and suddenly Sam's own echoed his brother's. Sam's head was bowed, his fingers white in their refusal to be pushed away.

"Sam," Dean's voice was a low punch of pain. Abe's eyes flew to Dean in astonishment. His head was still pressed deep into the pillow, his back only slightly relaxed, his eyes shut tight, but his head turned toward where he'd last heard his brother's voice. "Sammy…"

"I won't let you fall, Dean," Sam ground out, unable to raise his head, but not loosening his grip in the slightest.

"Sa—ahhhh!" Dean's plea was cut off as his back arched once more and Abe watched in amazement as his white bandages on Dean's arm were suddenly soaked in a reddish-green liquid. He saw the same liquid spreading slowly over the bed underneath Dean, soaking through the sheets. Dean tried to stifle his pained cry, but as the poison was pulled from his body, Running Horse's words sped up, his tone growing harsher, more staccato, his grip becoming fiercer.

Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, it was suddenly over. Dean collapsed against the bed, eyes closed, breathing quick and uneven, heart rate erratic, but present. Running Horse seemed to shrink slightly and Abe found that he could once again move. He reached out automatically to grasp the old man's shoulders.

Sam's head fell onto the bed next to Dean's arm. "Dean?" he said, his voice low against the mattress. "Dean?" he called again. He was panting and trembling, but he didn't let go of his brother.

"He's out, Sam," Abe said.

"Josh!" Doc called. "Get the hell in here!"

Abe moved Running Horse away from the bed on shaky legs. "Did it work?" he asked the old shaman.

Running Horse looked exhausted, but the smile on his wrinkled face was Abe's answer. Abe sat him down in the chair, then turned toward the boys. Josh was trying to ease Sam away from Dean's bed, the concern for his young patient evident on his face. Sam shook his head silently, unwilling or unable to let go of Dean's arm. Josh's words were not getting through.

"Sam, I need to check you out, kiddo. You are awfully pale. Just let go, Sam. Let him go. Sam, you need to let go of him –"

Abe stepped up to Sam. "He's okay, now, Sam. You did good."

Sam lifted his weary eyes to Abe. "Did it work?" his voice trembled, and unshed tears lingered in his eyes.

"Yeah, Sam," Abe nodded. "It worked." He looked over at Dean. He was a mess, but he was breathing. "He won't fall," he whispered.

At that Sam uncurled his fingers from his brother's arm. Josh shot Abe a look of gratitude, then moved Sam over to the other bed. Abe turned to help Doc.

"What's all that green stuff?" he asked.

"The infection. Or mystical wendigo disease. Or whatever the hell you two wackos said it was," Doc grumbled, cutting the bandages from Dean's arm.

"Well," Abe couldn't suppress a grin. "Guess even wackos are right once in awhile."

Doc shot him a nasty look, but Abe just grinned back at him, jubilant in his victory. Doc's resistance to the old ways of healing in their tribe had always been a point of contention between the men. Abe respected his methods – had seen him work miracles with medicines – but he was gratified to have been right about this. About the creature that had killed their people, and now, about how to save the boys that had killed the creature.

"Help me here," Doc said. He'd removed the bandages from Dean's arm, and rolled Dean to his right side. As he'd done before when they brought him to the clinic, Abe held Dean against him, Dean's forehead resting on his arm. Not normally one for emotion, Abe was surprised when his throat constricted as Dean sighed. It was almost a whisper of thanks through the boy's unconscious lips.

"Man, he's a mess," Doc grumbled. "Mark!"

Mark again appeared in the doorway. Abe wondered if he simply stood just out of sight waiting to be summoned.

"Get some clean sheets in here," Doc ordered.

As Abe held Dean, he watched Doc clean off the liquid that had poured from his body. Mark and Brian came in and between the four of them they changed the bedding and helped Doc replace the stitches in Dean's back and arm that had pulled. The whole process took almost an hour, and Abe hadn't heard a sound behind him. He completely expected Sam to be asleep when he turned around. But the dark eyes caught his the minute Dean was settled.

"I saw his dream," Sam whispered.

"That ever happen before?"

Sam nodded. "Once. Well, kinda. I was in his dream then."

Abe pulled his eyebrows together. "_In_ it?"

Sam sighed. "Long story," he said, rubbing his neck. Josh stood on the other side of his bed, glowering at Abe like a bodyguard.

"What?" Abe asked him.

"He needs rest, Abe," Josh grumbled.

"I'm not the one keeping him up," Abe shot back.

Sam sighed. "Guys, cool it," he said. "He was dreaming about the… the cave… and he was seeing us through the wendigo's eyes..." Sam cleared his throat. "I think he was trying to tell me something."

Running Horse spoke up. Abe always wondered why the old man never learned to speak English when he understood it so well. He figured it was a matter of pride. He listened, shocked, then looked to Sam.

"You're right, Sam," he said, clearing his throat.

Sam shifted his head forward in an obvious 'yeah, and...' motion.

"Running Horse thinks that Dean knew to put that symbol on the travois because… he um, connected to the creature."

"What?!"

"He knew what would keep it away from you. He simply wanted to get you safe, and cared about nothing else."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together, looking over at Dean. Running Horse spoke again.

"_One day he will destroy himself to save you… It is the blessing and the curse of brothers."_

Sam blinked, looking at Abe. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

Abe shook his head, a pang of sympathy lancing his heart. He opened his mouth to answer Sam when a voice behind him cut him off.

"You listen, and put it away, Sam," Doc said softly. He was looking down at Dean as he spoke. "You can't live your life worried about how Dean will behave because of your actions."

Sam swallowed and lay slowly back against his pillow. He looked up at the ceiling.

"Sam," Doc pressed. "It is his _choice_ to sacrifice for you."

"No offense, Doc, "Sam whispered. "But that's a load of crap."

Abe swallowed, looking between Sam and Doc.

"I appreciate what you're saying," Sam continued. "But you don't know what our lives have been like." He shifted his head over toward Dean's bed, his tired eyes resting on Doc. "My brother's been out of choices since he was four years old."

www

Chicago, IL 2006

"_All right, come on. We don't have much time. As soon as the flare's out, they'll be back," Sam panted. _

_Dean's voice was tight with pain and breathless from half-carrying their father out of the apartment building. "Wait, wait. Sam, wait," he pushed John up, away from him, making him balance on his own. "Dad, you can't come with us." _

"_What?" Sam was incredulous. They had just found him again! "What are you talkin' about?" _

_John blinked the blood out of his eyes, looking from Dean's hunched form, his left arm pressed against his side, to Sam's slashed face. "You boys—you're beat to hell," he said, shaking his head. _

_Dean swallowed thickly, "We'll be all right." He said it with such certainly. Sam saw sadness flicker in John's eyes. _

_Sam wasn't ready to give up so easily. He'd just gotten John back, dammit! He wanted him there – he wanted to _know_ he was there! "Dean, we should stick together. We'll go after those demons—" _

_Dean's voice shook and he tried to straighten, "Sam! Listen to me!" His voice carried the one authority Sam had always been compelled to listen to – over John, over his own voice… "We almost got Dad killed in there. Don't you understand?"_

_The blood from the cut on Dean's forehead ran down his face and crossed his lips. He blinked heavy eyes at Sam, begging him to understand. "They're not gonna stop, they're gonna try again. They're gonna use us to get to him. I mean, Meg was right. Dad's vulnerable when he's with us. He's—he's stronger without us around." He finished his plea, dropping his eyes and holding his side. _

No._ "Dad, no." Sam lifted his hand to his father's shoulder, gripping it tightly. He saw Dean's face out of the corner of his eyes. Dean's eyes were sad, his face pulled in a pinch of empathy. "After everything, after all the time we spent lookin' for you—please. I gotta be a part of this fight." _

_John frowned, the blood on his face throwing the shadows on his features into an odd light. Sam couldn't tell if he saw regret or pride in his father's eyes. "Sammy, this fight is just starting. And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you've got to trust me, son. Okay, you've gotta let me go."_

_Sam swallowed hard. He looked at Dean. Dean was watching John's face, waiting for John to look at him. Waiting… Sam pressed his lips together, fighting back the tears that had been threatening since Dean had stopped them. He looked back at John and gripped his shoulder once more, patting it softly. He dropped his hand, and John stepped between them, walking toward his truck._

_Sam looked at his brother. Dean looked back, and the expression in his eyes was a tangle of pain, regret, sorrow, and resolution. Sam pulled his eyebrows together, letting his misery reflect through his eyes, wanting Dean to see how badly this was hurting him._

"_Be careful, boys," John ordered, then stepped into his truck without a backward glance._

"_Come on," Dean said, bouncing slightly against Sam to get him moving around to his side of the car. _

_Sam backed away, keeping his eyes on his Dad's shadow inside of the truck. He opened the door of the Impala, stepped in and looked at Dean. The wince of pain as Dean adjusted himself behind the wheel wasn't hidden quickly enough. They raised their eyes as one and watched John's truck pull out of the alley, pull away from them._

_Dean started the car without another word. He backed up through the alley, going the opposite way as their father. He rotated the wheel slowly, holding his arm against his left side. Sam reached up as Dean drove down the lonely, darkened back streets of Chicago to carefully rub at the blood drying on the cuts across his cheek. He heard Dean breathing shallowly beside him._

"_I can't believe you just let him go," he said. It sounded sullen and petulant, but he was tired, he was hurting, and he wanted John back._

"_I didn't have a choice, Sam," Dean said in a tight voice. _

"_But now he's out there, and it's after him," Sam said after a few minutes of silence. He couldn't let it go. It had felt so good to be in a room with his father again… to be there and not fight… to be there and feel his father's arms around him… to be there._

_Dean let out a shaky sigh and Sam looked over at him. His brother looked terrible. The cut on his forehead and next to his eye had stopped bleeding, but he hadn't let go of his side since releasing John. Sam blinked and thought back to the fight in the warehouse… back to how quickly he was able to get to the flares in the bag… back to how someone had run interference for him…_

"_You okay, Dean?"_

"_Sam, I had to, okay?" Dean said in a tight voice. "I had to. I wanted him back, man, you _know_ I did. Seeing him again, man, it was like… like a weight had been lifted. But…"_

"_Dean –"_

"_I'm serious, man. If I thought that there was any other way to keep us together, to keep you guys safe…"_

"_Dean!" Sam barked. Dean blinked in surprise and looked over at Sam, as though just realizing that his brother was sitting next to him, staring at him. _

"_Jesus, Sammy," he muttered. "We gotta get you stitched up."_

_Sam reached up to his face again, wincing slightly as his fingers touched raw flesh. Dean blinked at him, turning his attention slowly back to the highway – almost too slowly. He had to pull the wheel sharply to keep it off the edge of the road._

"_Dean, are you okay," Sam whispered again. He was asking about more than just his side, his wounds… and he hoped his brother heard that._

_Dean paused, pulled in his bottom lip, and for a moment Sam thought he'd get his answer. "I'm fine, Sam," Dean whispered. _

_He drove on into the night, resolutely ignoring Sam's stare. Sam was glad he watched so closely, else he might have missed the heavy-lidded blink that nearly sent them into the ditch. When Dean recovered the car, he looked over at Sam with wide eyes. Sam blinked back. Dean slowed the car, pulling it over to the side of the road._

"_You wanna drive?" Dean asked quietly. _

_Sam didn't answer. He stepped out of the car, moved around to the driver's side, opened the door, and with a gentle shove, moved Dean across the bench seat and into the passenger seat. Sam slid behind the wheel, slightly surprised to feel the sticky wetness on the seat. If Dean had known he was bleeding enough to get it on the Impala, he'd have stopped a long time ago._

"_Guess this answers your question, dude," Dean said in a weary voice from the passenger seat as Sam pulled back onto the road looking for the nearest motel._

"_Which one?"_

"_Dad was glad to see you," Dean mumbled. "I don't think I ever saw the man so happy…"_

_Sam pressed his emotion back. Dean was right. Their Dad had looked happy. Which was why it had been so hard to let him go._

"_I know, Sam," Dean said, his head resting on the window, his eyes closed._

"_Know what?"_

"_I know you miss him, man. I wish there was another way…"_

www

Sam was smiling. It was the first thing he saw in the fuzzy light of the room. Sam's smile.

"Dude," he groaned. "It's too early for you to be so happy."

That only made the smile wider. "It's six o'clock."

"In the morning?"

"At night."

Dean groaned again, taking stock. He shifted on the bed, feeling the pull in his back. He was sore – felt like he'd gone a few rounds with that Native American body builder Sam had talked about. His head pounded. But the intense ache, the to-the-bone pain he'd felt before was gone.

"Sam?" he blinked his eyes open, looking around the room. No one else was there. He was strangely relieved. Sam sat next to his bed in the wheelchair, only this time his leg was encased in a brilliant white cast.

"Yeah?"

"What day is it?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow, giving him a bemused look. "It's Friday. We've been in the clinic a week, man."

"A week?"

"You've slept through most of it."

"Oh, man. The Impala…" Dean groaned, reaching up with his right hand to rub at his forehead.

"The _car_?!"

Dean saw a strange mark on his right forearm. "Yeah, man. We left it parked on the side of the… Dude. How the hell did I get this?" he rotated his arm, looking at the hand-shaped bruise turning from purple to yellow on his arm just above the wrist.

"I gave it to you," Sam said. Dean's eyes flew to his brother's. Sam looked… proud.

"Why?"

Sam tightened his lips. Dean had seen that look before. Sam was debating on exactly how to tell him something.

"Why, Sam?"

"So you wouldn't fall," Sam said softly, hoping Dean would remember on his own. He watched as Dean's eyes bounced from one side to the other, remembering, reliving.

"The… the wendigo… it…"

"Poisoned you," Sam supplied.

Dean nodded, looking slightly shell-shocked. He lifted his eyes to Sam, his unguarded expression sucking the breath from Sam's lungs. _Damn, Dean_, he thought. The walls were so much a part of his brother – the careful looks, the sarcastic answers, the way he talked around a subject when it got anywhere in the vicinity of his feelings. Sam was used to that. He was used to being on the other side. Dean letting him in – even if just for a moment, just through a look – rocked him.

"You're okay, Dean."

"What about you?" Dean blinked, shaking away the memory of the wendigo, the pain, the agony as the shaman pulled the poison from his body.

Sam smiled again. "I got a cast."

"I see. I'm itching to sign it," Dean's face pulled up into a half-grin.

"Dude, do _not_ say itch," Sam groaned good-naturedly.

"Boys," said a voice from the doorway. The voice, the tone -- it so matched John's that Sam saw Dean freeze. He tried to close off the instant flash of hope, but Sam saw it anyway. He shook his head once and leaned back so that Dean could see the doorway and Abe leaning against the frame.

"Hey," greeted Sam.

"I see you're awake," Abe said to Dean. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Dean answered honestly.

Abe stepped into the room and closer to them. Dean shifted, trying to sit up straighter in the bed. Sam watched with amazement. Dean was so closed off to strangers – he manipulated them, worked the situation so that they gave him what he needed. But with Abe… he acted like he was being… judged, inspected, measured. He… acted like he did when Dad was around.

"So, I, uh," Dean began, clearing his throat. "I owe you, man. _We_ owe you," he said, tilting his head to Sam.

Abe waved a hand in the air. "Not necessary."

"Sure as hell is," Dean protested. "If you hadn't come along… we wouldn't have made it."

Sam felt himself grow cold at Dean's words. That had been his nightmare through the last week. They had come so close this time… and to hear Dean say it aloud made it real, made their debt to Abe real. He nodded his agreement at Abe.

"Listen," Abe said, clearing his throat. He looked down at the floor, and shoved his hands into his back jeans pockets. "You boys, uh, you don't owe me anything." He paused, and they waited, recognizing the struggle for words. "You gave me something."

He paused again, then lifted his eyes back to the brothers. "You helped me believe in something again. You two…" he shook his head, his eyes bright. "You have something special. More than just… siblings. You're partners. You're friends. I could see it walking through the forest even when you," he nodded his head to Sam, "were unconscious and you," he nodded at Dean, "were half dead."

Sam blinked and looked down, then over at Dean. His brother's jaw was tight, but his eyes dry. He listened to Abe's words, but it was almost as though he didn't know where to put them.

"Don't lose that, boys," Abe said, his voice thick with emotion. "I get the feeling your lives aren't gonna get any easier… and from what I've witnessed… the only thing that's gonna get you through it is each other."

They sat in silence. The only sound being the steady cadence of the monitor, the whoosh of air from the heating ducts. Sam broke the silence.

"Thanks, man."

Abe nodded and started to turn away.

"Abe," Dean's voice caught him. Sam and Abe looked at him, expectantly.

"Think you could do one more thing for us?"

Abe lifted a shoulder, waiting.

"Don't know where the keys are, exactly, but uh," Dean licked his lips, pausing, then continued. "I'd really appreciate if you went over to Kingsley Trail and picked up my car."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. He looked at Abe, catching his eye, trying to say without words that this was Big. _Feel the weight of this request; it is Dean's way of saying I believe you, I trust you, I thank you_.

"Sure, I think I could handle that," Abe grinned. He went to the cabinet where Doc had stored their personal possessions. He lifted out a pair of keys, holding them up to Dean. "These them?"

Dean nodded.

"St. Christopher's medal, huh?" Abe said, looking at the keys.

Dean nodded again. "Friend gave it to us," he offered.

Abe nodded back, "Must know you pretty well – protection for travelers and all." He gave the boys a grin and left the room.

Sam turned to Dean, waiting. Waiting for his brother to comment on Abe's words, on the fact that they survived, on what had happened to him when Running Horse touched him. Waiting for something… Dean didn't look at him.

"Dean –"

"Sam," Dean interrupted whatever his brother was about to say with a raised hand. "I think we may have reached maximum overload on chick-flick moments."

Sam shook his head, unwilling to be deterred. "I'm not gonna forget, Dean."

"Won't forget what?" Dean asked, shifting stiffly on the bed, relieved that he could move his left arm without the excruciating pain of before.

"What you did for me. What you've done for me."

Dean lifted his eyes to Sam's, confused. "What are you talking about, man?"

Sam sighed, looked down, then lifted his eyes again. "I trust you, man. You're my brother. I know you'd…. you'd die for me. But don't lose yourself to save me, okay?" He thought of Josh saying those words to him. He thought of Running Horse predicting Dean's ultimate sacrifice. His stomach twisted and the agony of his thoughts shone through his eyes.

Dean's eyebrows when up. "You okay, man? What are you saying this stuff for?"

Sam just shook his head. "I just wanted you to know…" he couldn't continue. He had tried to tell Dean when they were in the forest, when he thought they were going to die, and he couldn't get the words out then. What made him think he was going to be able to now… now that they were safe, now that Dean was back with him.

Dean watched as Sam struggled to climb over that wall that was always between Dean and the rest of the world. He looked down. "I know, Sammy." He knew. He'd always known how his brother felt about him. He didn't need to hear the words.

"I mean it, man," Sam said softly.

"Me, too," Dean said, then looked up, taking a breath. "But if we have many more conversations like this we're going to have to paint the Impala pink."

Sam grinned, nodding. He lifted a brow, "You're so not signing my cast, dude."

Dean feigned disappointment. "Aww, Sammy. Such a kill-joy. And I have the perfect poem all worked out."

"Poem? Are you friggin' kidding me?"

"There once was a geek-boy named Sam…"

"Shut up, man."

It took another week before Dean could get out of the bed and walk unaccompanied across the room. Abe had brought in their duffels and clothes. Dean's first attempt to pull a T-shirt over his head ended with him unconscious. The second with him sweating and shaking. When he was able to dress himself without keeling over, Doc allowed Abe to take them to Running Horse. Their visit was brief, but as Sam leaned heavily on the crutches, he watched with interest as Running Horse's milky eyes never wavered from Dean's. As they left, he reached out for Dean with his withered hand. He reached out for Sam with his other hand, pulling the brother's close.

He stood between them, looking at Dean, holding on to both. "_Nij," _he said. "_Seyenz."_

The boys looked blankly at Abe. He shrugged. "Two brothers," he said.

Dean looked at Running Horse. "What does that mean?"

"_Seyenz_,_"_ Running Horse repeated. Dean looked at Sam, shrugged, then gently patted Running Horses' hand before they left. Abe walked out with them. They walked back to the clinic in silence. Abe stopped at the bottom of the clinic's ramp.

"You know, he lost his brother long before the wendigo took over," Abe said. "He lost his brother the minute his life was saved."

Dean looked over at Sam, then back at Abe, nodding. He walked slowly behind Sam up the ramp. When they reached the top, he said to Sam in a low voice. "It's time to go, man."

Sam didn't think Dean was healed enough. He still tired easily, favored his left arm, and couldn't rest on his back without breaking out into a sweat. But the look in Dean's eyes left no room for argument.

"Can you make it?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "I just have to get this off in a couple weeks." He gestured to his cast with a crutch.

Dean nodded, opening the door to the room they'd inhabited during their recovery. "I, uh, I just need to…"

"Get back on the road," Sam said with a nod.

Dean lifted grateful eyes to his brother. "Yeah."

The next day, they had their weapons and duffels in the car. Sam grumbled good-naturedly about being relegated to the back seat.

"Dude, there's no way you can sit in front," Dean said, impatiently. "You can't bend 'cause of your cast and if we move the seat back far enough for that, I can't reach the peddles."

"Not my fault you're little."

"Oh, you did _not _just go there," Dean glared at him.

Abe stood next to Doc and Josh, watching as the brothers situated themselves, listening to their banter.

"Hey," Abe called as Dean tossed Sam's second crutch toward his brother. Dean looked back at him over his shoulder; Sam ducked his head so that he could look out of the opened car door.

"Two brothers," Abe said, repeating Running Horse's words.

"Yeah?" Dean said.

"Two destinies," he finished. "It doesn't have to end the same."

Dean looked back in at Sam, who met his eyes solemnly. He saw his questions mirrored in his brother's eyes. Doesn't have to end the same as what? As Running Horse and the wendigo? As each other? They had always known they were different; their 'normal' was not societies 'normal'. But destiny?

Sam lifted a shoulder, his eyes softening, not pretending to have the answers. "Guess we'll figure that out as we go, huh?" he whispered so that only Dean could hear. Dean dropped his eyes, pulled in his bottom lip, then nodded.

"You okay in there, Sam?" Dean asked one last time before shutting the back door.

"Let's go," Sam nodded.

Dean turned to the trio and lifted a hand. The gesture, accompanied by the half grin, spoke more words than Abe knew Dean would ever be able to express. The door creaked noisily as he opened it and got in. He turned on the radio, Zeppelin blaring from the speakers.

"_Got no time for spreadin' roots, the time has come to be gone. And tho' our health we drank a thousand times, it's time to Ramble On…"_

Pulling away from the reservation, Dean sighed as he listened to the words, looking in the rear-view mirror at his brother. Sam nodded back at him.

"No better place to heal up than the road, man."

"You never know, Sam," Dean dropped his eyes to the road ahead of him. "We could run into Dad again soon. For real this time."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Knowing him he'll just jump into the back seat one day when we least expect it."

Dean grinned. He'd like that. "I'd like that."

"I know you would, man," Sam nodded. He looked at Dean's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "I know."

WWW

_a/n: onik – arm_

_A wise fellow writer once told me that every story has a natural ending. I could have kept this going through many different twists and turns, but when I thought about it, I started out telling a story of survival and brotherhood. So I tried to keep the focus narrowed on that. I hope you've enjoyed the ride._

_And, if anyone is interested, I've begun sketching out a Season 2-based story that will bring the druid Brenna Kavanagh back. It's kinda dark so far. And I know, OFC, but some of you liked her, so if you want, look for that to start after the holidays._

_Thanks so much for reading. Your reviews truly make my day. -- GS._


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